


Uphill

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2014 Winter Olympics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Olympics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 75,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is striving for gold in this, his fourth and final Olympics as a downhill Alpine racer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

> LONDON, England - Sherlock Holmes is not what one would call a homebody, though he’s often to be found at home. Sitting on a posh leather sofa and surrounded by precarious-looking chemistry equipment, he cuts a striking figure more likely to be seen on the catwalk than on the slopes.
> 
> The 35-year-old, now in the twilight of his career, is going to Sochi to compete in his fourth and final Olympic games, where he assures me he intends to take gold. “I’ve just completed one of the best seasons of my career,” he tells me as he adds a heaping scoop of sugar to his tea. “My body is capable, my mind is focused; I’m ready.” 
> 
> There’s no doubt that Sherlock Holmes has a focused mind, having graduated Cambridge with an advanced degree in chemistry. Holmes began skiing at a very young age on a family trip to the Alps. His parents, both notable cross-country competitors in their time, didn’t want to force their son into the sport, instead letting a young Sherlock discover it on his own. It wasn’t long before he was complaining about the flatness of the cross country scene, and began asking for steep slopes.
> 
> “You couldn’t get him off of the skis once he strapped in. Before you knew it we were spending half of the year in Austria so he could train,” his mother, a dynamo in ladies sprints in the 1970s, tells us. “My boy was always a thrill seeker, on the slopes and in his studies. He works very hard, often to the detriment of other areas of his life; I just hope it’s enough to bring him the gold in Sochi.”
> 
> Holmes took gold this past March in the downhill at the World Cup, in Lenzerheide, Switzerland. When I ask what he thought of the course he rolls his eyes, sips his tea, and leans back, leveling me with what I’m sure he hopes is an intimidating glare. “It’s snow, it’s slope. It’s science. If you know anything about physics there’s nothing to it at all.”
> 
> Though Holmes placed first, it was with a meager lead of just .07 seconds. James Moriarty, the leading men’s downhill racer out of Bern is a force to contend with. Also in his fourth Olympics, but with the distinct edge of being younger in years, Moriarty has fired shots at Holmes this past season, commenting on the skier’s age and agility. “I tend not to waste my time thinking about him; he’s nothing to me,” Holmes said following his first place win at Beaver Creek.
> 
> We hope Holmes is right. He’s posted faster-than-normal times on his home course and seems more limber than usual, something many seasoned downhill competitors struggle to maintain later in their careers. The International Ski Federation spokesman Gian-Franco Kasper claims that Holmes is one of the most graceful and composed competitors he has ever seen. “Gold is within his grasp for sure, if he keeps his ego in check,” Kasper tells us. “He’s got such command over any course, it’s really quite something.”
> 
> The course is Sochi has been said to be one of not only immense difficulty but of immense danger. When I ask Holmes of his level of excitement he tells me only, “I’m ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was strong lines and graceful curves, his hips cutting to the left and right to steer his body. Powerful calves shifted and contracted, angling his skis. His lean muscles flexed beneath the lycra as he twisted around a sharp turn and thudded over a jump, his head down and eyes focused as he rocketed ahead.

The departure gate was a sea of dark navy blue, some passengers ensconced in parkas, others in thinner, neoprene warm-up jackets. All of the outerwear boasted the Union Jack; emblazoned on the breast and sleeve respectively were the five Olympic rings. 

Superb athletes all, the sea of people vibrated with excited tension as they waited to board the flight that would take them to Sochi where they would compete in the name of Queen and country.

Sherlock Holmes eyed the crowd before him with an aloofness that had taken him years to cultivate. Stretched out in his chair, legs crossed at the ankle, he observed the excited faces of people who each harbored secret hopes of gold; it was a pity there were so few elite athletes amongst his delegation. It would be a miracle if anyone but himself managed to medal. 

He’d seen dreams like those of the people before him deflate, and he lost himself for a few minutes in attempting to predict how poorly each of the athletes were likely to do. 

At 35, Sherlock was one of the older athletes to qualify for Great Britain’s Olympic team, as well as being the oldest of the downhill skiers slated to perform at the games. He’d been to the games before, of course. For years he’d been widely regarded as one of the most graceful alpine skiers in the world. In Vancouver he’d narrowly lost the gold medal by three tenths of a second in the downhill event behind the highly favored American. In Turin he’d been a force to contend with being hailed by media outlets as the ‘Distinguished Dynamo,’ and had been the overall choice to take the gold. A rare miscalculation coming off of a steep turn had caused him to wipe out, his dreams of standing at the top of the podium skidding away.

Sherlock took each of his losses hard; his narrow loss in Vancouver needled at his inner perfectionist's resolve until Turin when he’d finally broken down and chewed out a reporter in the post-race presser for asking yet another inane question. For weeks afterward he’d been bombarded with hate mail and unflattering stories in the press; he ignored them, as always, yet he couldn’t deny that his attitude had cost him. He lost his endorsement from Supercandy and his relationship with Salomon was tenuous at best.

As a scientist, the losses baffled him; if he accurately calculated all of the available data, why wasn’t he making a _perfect_ run every time? This was often the crux of Sherlock’s problem on the slope; it was highly unlikely that any of the elements would ever be static enough to accurately predict the outcome of a run, and as a perfectionist he found that enormously frustrating. As his own worst enemy, his mind would turn over and over the data - the course terrain, the terminal velocity which his body would reach, the speed of the wind - and wonder _where_ he’d gone wrong.

Yet still, even after his spectacular losses and public persona issues, they were calling him the ‘Distinguished Dynamo,’ a name that had stuck due to the trademark smart suits that he favored over the traditional athletic-wear of his peers. He would do the morning interviews in tailored Dolce and Gabbana while the snowboarders would show up bedraggled and donning their patriotic, puffy coats, long hair untamed. The ice dancers would look prim and proper but lacked his flair and eye for fashion. 

As good as he looked, his tendency to don himself in bespoke garments caused him problems. He was stereotyped by the masses almost immediately, not to his surprise. Not favoring the rowdy and bohemian behaviors his fellow skiers tended to indulge in after long runs on the course, he was first pegged as a loner, then as an outcast, and then people began to speculate.

Going into the games at Sochi, this had become more of a problem for him. The tabloids had been after him for years, dropping bylines that hinted at a homosexual lifestyle, guessing at the identity of his possible lovers. It was never anything but conjecture, but the recent headlines regarding Russia’s anti-gay stance had the press at it again, questioning for the umpteenth time what Sherlock Holmes’s sexual preference was and would it be a problem for him at the games?

Sherlock ducked the questions with his usual aplomb, using his fast-paced words to steer the reporters’ inquiries back to his prowess on the slopes rather than his proclivities in bed. It only spurred to fuel the flames, however, and now they were positively rabid to get confirmation of his preferences despite the host country’s attitude towards homoesexuality. Sherlock’s propensity to dodge the press only heightened his status as an enigma in the sport.

It was, in his opinion, all rather tedious, so he did his level best to ignore the constant prying into his personal life. Besides, beyond skiing there honestly wasn’t much to wonder about. He lived alone in a modest home in Lake Tahoe when he was training, and when he wasn’t, he could be found in his flat in central London putting his degree in chemistry to odd use, experimenting with whatever struck his fancy, causing his landlady all number of issues. His fans found his pastime “charming,” while he found his fans’ interest in him nothing but an annoyance.

Sherlock checked the time, bored with watching his fellow countrymen chat and laugh. He closed his eyes and retreated to his mind, doing his best to block out the commotion. The flight was roughly nine hours with a stop in between; if all went according to plan he’d be checked into his room early enough that he could make his way to the mountain and make a preliminary visual inspection of the course before the other athletes arrived. Not that this would give him an idea of his time - the snow would become more and more carved but it would give him some inkling of the curves and likely speed of the course. 

His legs bounced impatiently as he huffed out a giant gust of breath loudly enough to disturb the woman sitting three seats to his right. She turned and blinked at him patiently, waiting for him to acknowledge her. Sherlock kept his gaze resolutely forward although he could feel the woman’s eyes on him. After a moment she spoke, her voice amused and light, “We board in ten minutes, Holmes, cool it.”

Sherlock, rolling his head on his neck, glanced over at her with cool, disinterested eyes, placing her as one of the female snowboarders. His voice was sharp and crisp when he answered her, “Yes, thank you, I’m aware of the time.”

She grinned at him as if she’s expected his reaction. “Keep it together, would you? Anyone might think you’re actually _excited_.” After a silly waggle of her eyebrows she huffed out a little laugh.

The only response he gave was a stern glare back to which she just shrugged and turned back to her conversation, leaving Sherlock to his thoughts.

\---

Their flight was - blessedly - a private one sponsored by British Airways, though it was on a smaller aircraft than Sherlock had been expecting. Between the competitors, the designated press, individual trainers and coaches, the flight was very nearly full. Sherlock made his way down the aisle, nodding his head at the athletes who acknowledged him with a hello or a smile; he lackadaisically fist bumped the professionals whom he’d chosen to accompany him on the trip. They were veterans in the sport and knew the ins and outs of wax and bindings like none other. 

Though they were seasoned skiers, they were also a rowdy group. Sherlock didn’t bother imposing rules on their behavior as he’d never had a problem with them in the twelve odd years he’d worked with the majority of them, but he didn’t like to mingle. Mingling would make it seem as though they were amicable and if they were amicable they would likely try to offer him advice and Sherlock didn’t need anyone in his head.

Sherlock took a seat towards the back, against the window. On long flights he found he could zone out and retreat to his mind, review his runs on various courses, dissect ways to attack the course ahead. He didn’t sleep but he would close his eyes and relax into it, the hum of the plane assisting in drawing him from reality and sharpening his focus. 

Stowing his bag easily, he snatched up two of the blankets that were folded on the seats and draped them over his lap, settling into the far seat and buckling in. It would be some time before take off with the various athletes securing their equipment properly. The interior of the airplane was live with a cacophony of chatter and Sherlock felt his ire notch up a bit at the commotion; he’d been through this before, many times, but each trip it seemed to grate on his patience more. 

He folded his arms across his chest, as though he could ward off the offending noise, and wedged his head back into the small space between the seat and the wall, allowing his eyes to roll back as his lids closed. He wouldn’t settle in just yet, as he would have to reset after the take off, but he could begin a bit of mental organization.

The plane filled and filled and before long Sherlock was certain that they were late taking off. His frustration inched up another notch and he grit his teeth.

“This seat taken?” A voice cut through his thoughts and halted them immediately.

Sherlock licked his lips and considered insulting the as yet faceless man, eventually deciding against it. “There are other seats,” Sherlock said coolly, but not as impolitely as he might have, without opening his eyes, crossing his arms tighter against his chest in silent defiance. He mentally tallied the number of seats on the flight and the number of people aboard and found that yes, there actually _were_ other seats available. 

What was more was that the man _knew_ the seat wasn’t taken and yet he’d asked, obvious and tedious. Beneath his lids Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

Sherlock was surprised by a brief, dry chuckle and then, “There really aren’t. Not sitting with the boarders, they’re drunk already. Curlers too, though that’s really no surprise.” The voice was pleasant enough and with an edge of defiance that Sherlock could appreciate, but that didn’t mean that Sherlock wanted the man sitting with him. “You took two of the blankets,” he continued, and Sherlock heard him loading his bags into the overhead bin, obviously not heeding the suggestion that he sit elsewhere; the row jostled a bit when he sat down with a happy sigh, which caused Sherlock to finally open his eyes.

He’d expected a young athlete based on the light, unassuming tone, perhaps one of the jumpers that was new on the circuit, but instead Sherlock was met with the weathered face of a man perhaps a few years older than himself. He was short of stature and plain but pleasant looking, smoothing his own blanket across his lap before turning to meet Sherlock’s gaze. He blinked at Sherlock, obviously making his own assumptions before he offered his hand out. “John Watson.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he hesitated, glanced down at John’s hand, then back up at his eyes. “Sherlock Holmes.” He fit his palm against the other man’s and was greeted with a strong grip and sure shake. Sherlock inspected John’s wrist and arm, the forearm was clearly well-muscled but hidden beneath dark gray wool. His hand was tan below the wrist, weathered and cracked; interesting. 

John released Sherlock’s grip first and Sherlock watched the hand retreat, curling safely around the arm of the seat. Recognition lit in John’s eyes and he snapped his fingers together at placing who Sherlock was. “Oh you’re that downhill bloke who everyone talks about.” John’s voice wasn’t surprised or prying but was rather knowing, and he served Sherlock with a small smile. “Not as scary as they say.”

“About _whom_ everyone talks,” he sneered in response. 

Sherlock posed, aloof, and leaned back in order to better see his new seating companion. With broad shoulders and strong chin, he sat straight in the seat but seemed to be at comfort. He had stormy blue eyes and a voice that hinted at an ability to command, take charge.

John smiled and then tilted his gaze in Sherlock’s direction. “Hmmm, coming off two broken ribs in November and a weak right knee? Fairly certain I could take you.” John winked and closed his eyes, set his seat back into a reclining position and didn’t say anything more. Sherlock was surprised at John’s ability to volley a challenge and then sit back while it took its effect.

Sherlock took the opportunity to run his full gaze over the man beside him, from his plain brown shoes to the very tips of his gray-streaked blonde hair. A sports reporter would likely know the extent of his injuries off hand but he didn’t fit the bill of a member of the press. There was only one other option, then.

“Ahhh,” Sherlock said eventually in delight, landing on John’s area of expertise. “Why aren’t you sitting with the other physicians?”

John peeked an eye open and then the other, glancing at Sherlock with an expression that bordered on impressed, though Sherlock couldn’t be sure; John seemed to be just as hesitant to engage Sherlock as Sherlock had been to engage him. He pursed his lips and sighed, folding his hands in his lap and making a very obvious display of giving Sherlock a onceover of his own. “Perhaps I didn’t want to.”

Sherlock darted his tongue to wet the center of his upper lip; how intriguing John was. “Mmm, no.”

John smiled with half of his mouth and rolled his eyes, stretching out a bit in his seat. He shrugged it off, “I’m supposed to familiarize myself with the athletes.”

“And you chose me to start?”

“No,” John corrected immediately but without any ire behind it. “I chose the back of the _plane_.”

Sherlock was momentarily stunned by the response and belatedly stunned that he’d bothered to engage his rowmate in conversation to begin with. He opened his mouth at once to speak but couldn’t think of a single thing to say so he shut it and angled himself back into position against the wall. 

In time, the pilot came over the PA and instructed them all to return their seatbacks to an upright position and direct their attention to the front of the plane for a demonstration of the onboard safety practices. Sherlock hazarded a glance to his right, slightly surprised to see that John still had his eyes closed, though he had moved his seat. He wasn’t sure why he was so shocked; Sherlock knew nothing about the man but he’d been so sure that he was the type to follow the rules. 

John Watson was throwing him for a loop and he didn’t particularly enjoy it, though he was distracted enough about it that he stalled on retreating into his mind. Sherlock mulled that over as they made their ascent, coming back to the tan line at John’s wrist and his posture in the seat. The observations slotted themselves into place in his mind and he grinned in victory when he came upon his conclusion. “Army doctor home from… Afghanistan? Yes, Afghanistan, as team physician, how interesting.”

John sighed and his eyes popped open, clearly deciding how to proceed. “Not particularly. Needed a job and I used to ski a bit.”

“Oh, a bit.” Sherlock’s right eye twitched as he enunciated the t; he frowned. 

John unclipped his seatbelt and turned his body towards Sherlock, pushing up the seat arm and allowing himself more space. Shoulders square, he appeared to be gearing up for a fight, or to defend himself; Sherlock couldn’t tell which. “Cross, and biathlon a few times.” 

A deprecating laugh barked out of Sherlock. “Skiing with _guns_ ,” he observed snidely, finally feeling back on even footing. “How positively barbaric, though appropriate as far as you’re concerned, I suppose, what with your military past.”

“Oh,” John said, a little surprised but mostly amused; his eyes crinkled in good humor and his tongue peeked to wet his lower lip. “So you are a dick. Good to know some of the press got it right.” He shook his head and laughed, dipped his chin towards Sherlock as though conceding a point. “But you know all that from… what, the delegation dossier?”

Now Sherlock had the upper hand; he delighted in moments like this, situations where he could show off his powers of observation and deduction. “No…”

“Then how did you know about me, all of that?”

“A simple matter of observation, Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, John. Call me John, just… just John.” He asked for a ginger ale off of the passing beverage cart while Sherlock requested water. “But really, how’d you know?”

“One needs only to see and put his mind to work,” Sherlock sipped primly at his water. “Though admittedly, most humans are outstandingly slow. Half of their brains must atrophy from underuse.”

“Well yeah, we’re all complete idiots,” John joked, good naturedly. He didn’t seem to be offended by Sherlock’s obvious barb; wasn’t _that_ interesting? “That’s actually rather brilliant. You got all of that from just looking at me?”

With the water halfway to his tray, Sherlock paused. “You really think so?”

John grinned at him. “Yeah, brilliant.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed and leaned back, set his own seat to recline and closed his eyes. He needed to get his mind back in order but he couldn’t seem to get around the simple fact that this team physician thought he was brilliant. How utterly bizarre.

“Hmm,” he hummed again and didn’t open his eyes again until they’d landed in Russia.

\---

Their buses were miraculously still waiting for them at the airport although they’d landed nearly three hours late. By the time Sherlock stepped off of the plane he was a ball of antagonistic energy, doing his best to put off anyone who dared speak to him. He gathered his luggage and tore the customs tags from the case, weaving through those still waiting to pick up their luggage. He entrusted all of his equipment to his ski team and didn’t bother to wait around to speak with them.

He saw John across the expansive space, chatting with one of the mogul coaches, and John gave him a half wave in goodbye, to which Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement. It was a blessing that the flight had landed when it had; he wasn’t sure he could afford himself the distraction of puzzling over John Watson any further. He had the course to think of and gold to strive for; he had to set his sights firmly on getting on the top of that podium.

It was only a short ride to the hotel but Sherlock was so impatient that he stood at the back of the bus, making a short circuit in pacing the aisle. Once inside his room in the Olympic Village he immediately unpacked all of his belongings, sorting them neatly into his dresser, and set off for the Rosa Khutor downhill course. His team would be waiting; they knew he liked to get on the powder as soon as he was able, and the training runs for the men’s downhill had opened that morning.

A short train ride later and he was ascending the course, chatting idly with a female athlete from Sweden about wind conditions. Like this, he was on autopilot; the inane chatter flowed from him without much thought. His gaze was fixed on the course below, the red flags peeking from the crest of curves and the orange netting flanking the entire run.

A thrill ran through him at his first glimpse and he very nearly smiled, catching himself just in time to turn his delighted laugh into a cough; the two mile course looked pristine and compact and he could very nearly feel his body flying over it already. 

His blood picked up and thrummed in anticipation.

There were only a few athletes waiting outside the warming hut, all chatting cautiously, and Sherlock rounded them swiftly so as not to get caught up in conversation. He didn’t ask who’d already taken a training run and he didn’t care to know; Sherlock always preferred taking his first run blind, just letting his mind soak up the specifics of the course. 

He had an old suit of Lycra on, a suit he planned to get rid of after his Olympic training was over, and he pulled up a pair of training shorts over them for warmth. Lastly, he zipped his heavy parka - the same he’d been training in for the past five years - and fit his helmet onto his head, visor up.

By the time he got around to strapping on his racing boots, the group of athletes who had been standing around when he had arrived had all gathered outside of the hut behind the gate, watching him. Sherlock spared them a glance and then turned back to the serviceman who was helping him into his skis, checking his boots and the bindings for snow. He was strapped into a relatively new pair, ones that he’d selected specifically for training purposes, not wanting to wear his race skis and risk injury to them. 

“I’ve not done anything special to them,” his lead, Molly Hooper informed him. She smoothed her hands over her own snow pants and took a step back. “It’ll just feel natural, like there’s nothing there at all, and we can adjust on the second run.”

Sherlock shifted his skis against the snow beneath him just a bit and tested the resistance. 

“Word is it’s rough, though,” she said, biting her lip. “Sure your old bones can handle this?” It was said with a grin, but he knew her concern was very real. Molly, a seasoned skier herself until an ACL injury had done away with her career, had seen what the sport could do to a body. 

Sherlock blinked out at the course and then back at her, mouth set in a determined line. “Have I given you reason to believe I’m not capable?”

Tugging on his gloves, Sherlock threaded his hands through his poles and Molly took a step back. A hush fell over the area as he shifted to the gate and set himself in a starting crouch. 

Sherlock allowed himself to look down at the course and he conceded that it looked rather imposing from the starting gate. They _all_ looked imposing from the starting gate, however, and he knew if he had confidence in himself he could master this course just as he’d mastered countless others.

He fit his goggles over his eyes and checked his poles one last time before aligning his skies over the line. There was a chime, and then two, and on the third, Sherlock shoved off. 

Sherlock exploded from the gate, poles planted firmly into the snow and rocketing him onto the course. Immediately he felt a sense of calm wash over him, at being back where he was meant to be, doing what he was meant to do. His body sang with the exhilaration and his mind went clear and crystal, ready to read the track for future runs.

His skis hit the ice with a jump and he was off; the start was quite steep and his speed picked up dramatically as he leaned into the first turn and whipped right. The snow beneath him was rough and bumpy and would give him no breaks even as he skied over a flat expanse of ground. 

He was strong lines and graceful curves, his hips cutting to the left and right to steer his body. Powerful calves shifted and contracted, angling his skis. His lean muscles flexed beneath the lycra as he twisted around a sharp turn and thudded over a jump, his head down and eyes focused as he rocketed ahead. 

His mind was concentrated on the meters in front of him, numbers and calculations passing through his consciousness at such speed that he wasn’t aware of processing any of it. That was the beauty of it for Sherlock; even as his body reacted seemingly without direction from his mind, his mind worked independently from his body. It was a confluence of elegance.

Sherlock’s heart thudded in his chest, his whole body awake and alive, positively thrumming with excitement, adrenaline causing endorphins to flood through him. This was what he thrived on, what he craved. He sucked in a quick breath of frigid air as his breathing sped up, capturing the taste of it in his mouth, feeling at peace as his skis cut audibly through the crisp surface. 

Euphoria, pure and sweet, overtook him as he cut down the mountain.

He flew over the Russian Trampoline, gaining speed, diving into the Accala Valley with determination, poles a weight between his arms and torso. Gritting his teeth, he skied a few meters outside of the course, angling himself back onto the proper side of the blue line just in time to contend with the hard, icy conditions into which the lower part of the course had frozen.

For a brief, split second, Sherlock felt sudden pang of fear race up his spine at the startling complexity of the course, but it was promptly forgotten as he hit another, smaller jump and was thrust into eight tight turns in a row, his hips pivoting perfectly as he strove to maintain his speed while also remaining between the blue lines.

He bobbled once, then again, and for a terrifying moment he thought he was going to crash out; he righted his left ski and pressed down hard, coming out of the final turn flying, but shaky, launching over the final jump and bursting across the finish line with a whoosh of released breath. Slamming his skis sidewards Sherlock slowed and swiveled around, coming to a stop facing the course.

On impulse he glanced up to where the flags would indicate whether he was faster or slower than the rest of his field before he tore his eyes away to the empty grandstand. God, his legs felt like jelly, jelly that was somehow being consumed rapidly by fire.

Sherlock looked up, up, and took another deep, steadying breath. The air rushed past his ears and bit at his skin but he didn’t feel it. All he could sense was the hard thump of the blood rushing through his veins and his muscles alive with the difficulty of the course. 

He’d heard that this course was going to be brutal and now, after one run on it, he knew it to be fact.

Bending to remove his skis, he caught sight of a small group of people gathered near the entrance towards the grandstands. They were all wearing team Britain jackets but Sherlock couldn’t recognize any of them at a distance.

It wasn’t until the man with his back to him stepped out of the way that he saw Doctor John Watson standing amongst his colleagues, smiling slightly and clapping slowly in his direction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What are you doing on the floor?” John Watson asked, doctorly concern coloring his voice; he looked just about as tired as Sherlock felt and for a beat, Sherlock allowed himself to simply look up at him. “Are you hurt?”
> 
> Sherlock blinked twice and ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, gathering saliva. “Key card didn’t work and every single member of the staff seem to have disappeared.”

Sherlock opted for only one run and packed up his equipment for his team to bring back, returning to the Athlete’s Village alone to find an adequate dinner and calm his sudden nerves over the complexity of the course. It was a challenge, to be sure, and he found himself equal parts excited and apprehensive about the difficulty level of the slopes. This was what sparked the fire in him, this was what sent the heady rush through his veins.

With a mind swirling full of data, he set off in search of one of the many available cafeterias.

He generally ate alone, unlike the majority of the other athletes at the Games who traveled about in their respective sport groups. The Athlete’s Village was set up in a way that was conducive to group activities, and it was conspicuous when anyone roamed about without a gaggle of their fellow competitors. He got stares, but he was used to it, having learned long ago to ignore the attention and carry on like always.

The lodgings too were structured in a way to foster camaraderie amongst the attendees. The athletes were placed in dorms usually of two or more, unless a member wished to fund their own, individual room. 

After his first Olympics in Salt Lake City, Sherlock had realized that the dorm-living situation was not to his liking. The other athletes treated their time away as an excuse to party and have sex, neither of which particularly interested Sherlock. The athletes were some of the most fit and beautiful people it the world; it made sense that things tended towards the carnal and physical. Sherlock had no time to indulge in such mindless pleasures, so he left the lesser minds to the more base pleasures, putting in more time in the gym and on the slopes, improving. 

The raucous atmosphere was a detriment to his focus, and he trusted his agent to find separate, quieter accommodations away from the athletes. In Turin he’d bunked in a hotel with the journalists and other delegation members, and in Vancouver he’d managed to secure a quaint and rustic rental cabin away from the center of activity. This year’s lodgings were far less lavish, but they were private and quiet nonetheless. 

Sherlock meandered, lost in thought, until he found a cafeteria and ordered a large plate of grilled chicken and a bowl of pasta primavera, forcing it all into his body although he had no appetite at all. This was often a problem for him; he had no real interest in food, but had to maintain a certain caloric intake in order to meet the requirement of his sport. He preferred shakes and supplements to actual solid food because he could suck them down without thought; chewing, he felt, slowed him down.

He lingered in the cafeteria, not even really aware that he’d been there for so long, going over and over the downhill course in his head as he chewed mindlessly, wondering about how he should approach the Russian Trampoline and the subsequent landing. He knew he could take the last jump with a bit more speed and control; he turned over the final part of the slope in his head, again reviewing his entire run, right straight through to his finish, when he’d pulled up and had seen John standing there.

Watching him.

For some reason the image of John Watson smiling smugly and clapping, obviously impressed, lingered in his mind until his run down the mountain was all but forgotten. It had been such a pleasant surprise; John had been easy to converse with and, unlike most of the people with whom he spoke, _not_ a complete idiot. Sherlock twisted his empty fork against his plate and found himself wondering where John was right at that very moment; was he conversing with other athletes from the delegation, chatting with them just as amicably as he’d chatted with Sherlock? Getting to _know_ them perhaps more thoroughly than he had with Sherlock? Was he in his hotel room somewhere across the Olympic Village? Would he run into John again, and if he did, what would he say?

He bristled at himself and sat back, crossing his arms over his chest. Why did he care at all? He shouldn’t; John Watson didn’t matter. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t here to make friends or meet people, he was here to stand atop the downhill podium, his first Olympic gold around his neck.

As Sherlock decided rather petulantly that he didn’t _care_ what John Watson was up to, he immediately contradicted himself, feeling a spike of jealousy at the thought of John chumming it up with a luger or being friendly with the curling team. He slammed a fist down on the table, attempting to reroute his mind onto more important and _pressing_ topics.

How spectacularly simple of him, how ridiculous. They’d shared a short chat on the plane and nothing more; Sherlock couldn’t possibly fathom why he’d become so invested in the man.

He left his detritus on the table and made his way back towards his hotel, enjoying the warmer-than-usual evening air. Considering for a moment whether the conditions would affect the mountains, he looked up to realize he was in front of the Olympic torch, and allowed his gaze to linger on the empty cauldron. 

Sherlock generally drew his competitive edge from a personal obligation to win; the notion of skiing for his country wasn’t something that he often thought about. Other than wearing the accoutrements of team Great Britain, he didn’t feel particularly tethered to his nation. He didn’t ski to represent Great Britain; there was no swell of nationalistic pride that he felt when he performed an exceptional run at an event. 

But as he stood in front of the symbol of the Games, he felt something shift minutely within him. He traced a finger over the flag on his sleeve and there was a pang of something in his chest, something light and delicate, and Sherlock tore his eyes away from the elaborate architectural swoop, shoved the feeling aside and continued on across the park, hands pushed deep into the pockets of his parka.

He was stopped a few times along the way by timid fans and he did his best to retain his cool and smile in the photographs that were requested of him. There was no doubting that he was a conspicuous character with his shock of black hair and firm, lean body folded into his coat. His trademark Ray-Bans were also a dead giveaway, and even now in the torch-illuminated night he wore them. It had occurred to him before that if he altered his appearance he might be able to slip through the various events he attended with a bit more ease, but at this point in his life Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with the effort it would take to ensure anonymity. So he smiled and nodded as best he could and signed photographs. (He drew a line at the fan mail, however, which was attended to by his agent and was responded to - to the best of his knowledge - with a form letter and a glossy, mass-produced, signed photograph.)

By the time he’d finished up with the fans, a wave of exhaustion overtook him and he longed desperately for the sanctuary of his room. Sherlock quickened his steps, weaving through the groups of people en route to his hotel. The soreness in his thighs began to make itself known and he had to stop, lean over and stretch it out; he would indeed have to excel in his two remaining training runs on Rosa Khutor if he expected his body to respond in a manner with which he was comfortable. 

Making his way through the sliding glass doors, Sherlock resolved to wake early and make use of the gym, perhaps get in a good workout on the leg press machine. He had five days before his competition was slated to start, which meant he could continue his limited training regimen for a bit longer without risking harm to his body.

Spine sagging, Sherlock drifted through the lobby to the elevators, ensuring first that there were no press lingering to see him in such a diminished state. He needed a long, hot bath, some ibuprofen and a good sleep to get him back in functioning order. Attendees of the Games had been warned about the iffy state of the water but he’d been assured by his agent that the hotel water was safe to bathe in; this was a blessing as his room was outfitted with a jetted tub, just the thing to take the ache out of his limbs.

He was lucky to have accommodations in a resort that was reportedly filled with foreign press and special park personnel. Slumping in the elevator, he stabbed at the button for five, leaning back into the corner of the rising box until the cheerful jingle of the bell announced his floor.

Sherlock fished for his room card in one of his inner pockets and came up with it between two fingers, sliding it through the reader quickly. When neither the accepted nor the denied signal lit, he tried it again, slower and then twice more.

Notions of his hot bath swirled away as he groaned and trudged back to the elevator, taking it down to the lobby. 

“My room key doesn’t seem to be working now,” he said, flicking the card down against the wood laminate countertop at reception. Any and all patience he’d had he’d used when dealing with the small gaggle of fans; now, he was just tired and sore and jet-lagged. 

The clerk looked from the key to Sherlock and back to the key before she picked it up and examined it as though it was a foreign object. She ran it through the card reader, shook her head and turned back to him. “This is not the key to your room.”

Sucking in a breath, Sherlock released it shakily and pressed his palms against the counter to steady himself. “Then why, might I ask, did the clerk who was here this morning hand me that very key and instruct me to proceed to room 509? The door to which I opened with, again, _this very key_?”

“This is not your key,” she said again, this time having the decency to pull a strained expression. “We will find your key. Please give us a moment.” With that, she turned towards a coworker who had entered the reception area, talking in hushed tones over the card reader. Another moment passed and Sherlock was able to pick up a few scattered Russian words, none of which made any sense. 

The desk clerk disappeared behind a partition momentarily and then appeared holding a large box full of identical room keys; she looked triumphant. “One of these is your key, we will find it.”

Sherlock, baffled, gawked and finally managed to sputter, “Just run an unassigned card through the reader! Assign me a new card, it’s not terribly difficult!”

The pair frowned and ignored him, instead making their way to the elevator and disappearing into a waiting car. Sherlock was so knackered that he didn’t even have the presence of mind to shout after them, instead managing only to remain behind with hands open and offered in incredulity, staring forlornly through the empty lobby area to where the clerks had just stood. 

He was able to carry his body across the expanse of marbled floor, and collapsed on a garishly-patterned sofa, his bones very nearly sighing in relief as he did. Sherlock closed his eyes and waited, listening as other patrons entered the hotel, though they didn’t stay to linger in the opulent (but rather needlessly expansive) lobby. He didn’t consider for a moment that someone of import might see him because he was too busy attempting to keep his eyes from remaining closed when his lids would falter and droop.

When Sherlock again opened his eyes, it was to low lighting and very faint elevator music; glancing down at his watch he was stunned to note that he’d fallen asleep and had been out for nearly two hours; the hotel staff hadn’t bothered to wake him. With a stiff back he made his way to the front desk, and at not being able to find a living soul to help him, slinked up to his room. Perhaps the clerks were still tending to his keycard situation.

He reached the hallway that lead to his room and was utterly dismayed to find no sign of the clerks’ presence. With an audible groan, Sherlock slumped against the wall and then slid down it all the way to the floor. He just wanted to _sleep_ at this point, forget the bath; his eyes stung and his body felt somehow boneless and cramped at the same time. 

His eyes slipped closed as he tilted his head back and took a deep breath; he couldn’t afford to become overwhelmed about this. It took him a moment to clear his mind but once he did, he tried to figure out what he should do. It was nearly ten o’clock in the evening and he needed rest if he was to make another training run in the afternoon. There were two options: he could sleep in the hotel lobby - a rather conspicuous location where he’d be susceptible to being photographed by the press but also run the chance of finding hotel staff to get him situated - or he could sleep here, right here, on the floor. 

He was in the middle of weighing the pros and cons when he felt something touch his foot. He didn’t bother to open his eyes until a moment later when he felt someone distinctly _kick_ him. The harsh expletive that he was about to utter died on his tongue when he blinked his eyes open and noticed the offender.

“What are you doing on the floor?” John Watson asked, doctorly concern coloring his voice; he looked just about as tired as Sherlock felt and for a beat, Sherlock allowed himself to simply look up at him. “Are you hurt?”

Sherlock blinked twice and ran his tongue over the roof of his mouth, gathering saliva. “Key card didn’t work and every single member of the staff seem to have disappeared.”

“Christ, how long have you been out here?”

“Fell asleep in the lobby.” Sherlock’s head lolled on his shoulders. “Was weighing my options for the night and deciding whether or not I need to fire my agent for putting me up in this blasted place.”

“Alright.” John stooped down and slid his arms beneath Sherlock’s trying to help him to his feet. “Come to my room, we’ll get you sorted; you sure you’re not hurt?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly and considered, wondering why he hadn’t immediately shrugged off John’s hands. The hard floor was doing nothing for the state of his back and it wouldn’t do him any good just lingering in the hallway on the verge of falling asleep. John was a doctor, prone to helping out the weak and in need. Sherlock was sure that as a doctor he also likely had some fantastic painkillers in his room, ones that would put his back and knees out of their misery. That was enough to make up Sherlock’s mind and he stood on stiff legs, dipping his head in a show of acceptance.

John made a show of looking Sherlock over once more. “You look a bit stiff, are you sure you’re alright?”

Sherlock nodded as they walked in the opposite direction of the elevators, towards John’s room. “Yes, the course is… was… unexpected.”

“I’d heard that, yeah. Hopefully that doesn’t mean more work for me.” John walked cautiously beside Sherlock, matching his slower pace.

They pulled up in front of room 517 and John slid his mercifully functional keycard through the reader and pressed the door open. “Let’s get you some anti-inflammatories, yeah? See about calling the front desk and I’ll get my kit.”

“Was hoping for something a bit more aggressive, but I’ll take what you’ve got.” Sherlock did as asked without a fuss; he tried the desk four times to no avail and instead of trying a fifth time, he slammed the phone down on its receiver and stared across at John with bleary eyes. John frowned at him and crossed the room, grabbed his hand, and dropped three pills into his palm.

“No one there?”

Sherlock shook his head, rolled his eyes - _obvious_ \- and accepted the bottle of water that John was holding out.

“This place is… strange. They don’t seem to operate under the same ideas of hospitality here.” John shrugged and took a seat next to him on the bed. “Well, I can run downstairs and see if I can find someone but you’re uh, you’re welcome to stay here if we can’t get you into your room. You’re not missing out on any medications are you? Anything you needed that you can’t make do without until tomorrow?”

Again, Sherlock shook his head and slumped back against the king-sized headboard. 

John pursed his lips, glanced at the door and then back at Sherlock. “Right well, I’ll just head on down, won’t be a tick.”

When John returned, toting bad news, Sherlock was asleep, folded awkwardly at the head of the bed.

\---

Sherlock came to and bolted upright. He didn’t recognize the room he was in but that was no surprise; he’d hardly had time to get to know his own accommodations before he’d gone rushing off for the slopes. It took him a moment to get his bearings and as he turned to the right to stretch out his aching back, he caught sight of Doctor Watson.

He was seated at the small desk, tapping away at his computer, oblivious to Sherlock’s consciousness. Sherlock did his best to clear his throat primly and John turned, a gentle smile curving his lips. “Bet you’re feeling that in your back.”

“Hm, yes, I… yes.”

John laughed and stood, levering the screen of his laptop closed. “How do you even manage sleeping in that position?”

Sherlock was too knackered to ignore it, and he wiped at his eyes with firm fists. “Exhausted. I take it you were unable to find out anything about my room?”

“It looks as though everyone’s packed up and left for the night. I mean, they _can’t_ have, but I was down there for a half an hour and couldn’t locate a single soul. This hotel is… interesting to say the least.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock stood, his joints cracking with the effort. 

“Listen,” John began cautiously, slipping his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Stay here tonight, get some rest, you shouldn’t… don’t sleep in the lobby. I’m sure you have a workout in the morning and then the opening ceremonies… you should really get some real sleep. In a bed.”

“Thank you but I-”

“Hey, I insist. You’d be doing me a favor. Who knows how badly you’ll cock up on the slopes if you’re not at your best, right? I don’t want to be subjected to an injured Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John; there had been a few pieces in the sporting magazine after his broken-ribs incident, mostly quotes from the bystanders who had heard the way he’d treated the course medics when they came to attend him on the slope. 

John shrugged sheepishly. “Okay, I… I might have read about you before yesterday,” he conceded. “A _little_.”

“Ah,” was all Sherlock said, and he stood there looking blankly over at John; waiting for what, he was unsure. It felt as though he were underwater; his vision rippled and swam and his limbs felt heavy. All he wanted to do was crawl into the nearest bed and sleep it off.

“Dead on your feet,” John muttered.

“What?”

“You’re dead on your feet. Come on, I can’t in good conscience let you sleep in the hall or that windtunnel of a lobby, just…” John turned his palms up, pleaded and Sherlock considered. He _did_ have his well-being on the course to think of, and John was right; if he wasn’t properly rested he was liable to make a costly mistake that could end his run at the gold before it even properly began.

“If you’re certain it wouldn’t be an imposition…”

“Nah, s’fine. I don’t mind. Worse situations that this in Kandahar.” With that, John rounded the bed towards his suitcase. “Have a shower, get some sleep, you’ll get things sorted in the morning.”

Sherlock blinked but said nothing.

“Besides,” John assured, yawning into the vee of his elbow. “By the time you’re out of there I’ll be long asleep. I’ll just clean myself up and the bathroom is all yours.”

\---

The shower felt like heaven, truly, and Sherlock massaged his aching muscles under the surprisingly strong spray. He didn’t feel one bit of guilt as he notched the temperature to nearly scalding, using the hotel-issue soap to clean himself. He couldn’t seem to locate any shampoo or conditioner, but spotted two small bottles on the sink. They were John’s, but he would purchase him new items in the morning.

It wasn’t a bath, but it did the trick, and as Sherlock was towelling off his hair, he took a moment to categorize the scent of John’s products. It was woody and light, and he brought his damp hair towel to his face for a sniff before hanging it up to dry on the rack. 

Looking down at his neatly-folded clothes, he realized he had nothing clean to wear. The trousers were stiff and unpleasant from having been worn for such a long duration, and his shirt was regrettably beginning to smell a bit ripe. He picked his pants out of the pile and wondered if he could get away with wearing so little while he slept next to someone who, though compelling, was still very nearly a stranger. 

He was sure John was asleep, but in order to put himself at ease, he slung a towel around his hips and cracked open the door, giving a perfunctory whisper of “John,” to which he didn’t expect a response.

“Whatever you’ve on is fine. S’a king bed, I don’t mind.” The voice was thick with sleep but sounded sure enough, and with that, Sherlock returned to the bathroom and donned his pants and moved through the dark room to slip into the vacant side of the bed. 

He shimmied until he found a comfortable position, curling an arm up under the pillow, his front to John’s back. He could just make out the line of the other man’s spine underneath his thin, cotton tee shirt. “It won’t do…” Sherlock whispered and John stirred, head maneuvering just a shade towards Sherlock’s voice.

“Hmm?”

“If someone sees me leaving your room… it won’t do.”

John was silent and still on his side, nearly two feet away from Sherlock. In the large bed, even if he wanted to touch John he’d have to make a point to uncurl and stretch over; they weren’t in any danger of spooning during the night, but they were two men in the same bed, in a place that wasn’t hospitable for homosexuals. He wasn’t sure his reputation could handle the scandal that might come with a photograph capturing him leaving another man’s room in the morning.

“You planning to bugger me in the lobby for all to see?” John asked, a humorous lilt in his voice.

“...No.”

“It’ll be fine; go to sleep.”

\---

There was sunlight peeking through the gaps in the curtains when Sherlock awoke and it again took him a few moments to place where he was. When it dawned on him that he was in John’s room, he was stricken to find that he was alone. That, in turn, led him to wonder about the time and he turned over, unable to find his watch on the bedside table. He stumbled from bed, scrubbing his hands through his hair as he did so; it had dried unevenly and he’d have to have another shower to straighten it out.

His skin felt stiff and starchy and he distantly recalled that he hadn’t had the chance to moisturize after his run on the slopes; he’d need to get into his room as soon as possible, go through his routine, _prepare_.

Sherlock padded across the room, intent on finding his watch but pulled up short next to the desk. He squinted down, crossed to the window to open the curtains for some light, and then went back. On the desk was a room service container with a note.

 _Sherlock, wasn’t sure what your schedule was but figured it would be best not to wake you. Here’s some breakfast, hopefully you’re awake before it’s cold. Good luck getting into your room!_

Lifting the cover off of the plate he was greeted with a heaping pile of scrambled eggs, four pieces of toast, and a half of a grapefruit. Sherlock’s mind blanked out for a brief second; no one save for his trainers had ever provided him with breakfast before, and that had been because he’d been on a strict regime and had been told not to take supplements.

His stomach did a little flip, much to his chagrin. John was simply being doctorly, Sherlock was sure of it, but his lesser emotions betrayed him, finding affection in a gesture that was likely typical of people in John’s profession. John was a caretaker and as such had wanted to assure that Sherlock was at his best when he went to perform for the day. 

He side-eyed the food for another beat before grabbing his watch, stunned to find that the time had gone half-nine. 

Sherlock cursed aloud; if he’d been in his own room he would have made certain that he was up by six o’clock at the very latest. He knew he couldn’t blame John for having let him sleep in; his body had needed it, that was true enough. Honestly, Sherlock hadn’t felt this well-rested in quite some time, the extra four hours having rejuvenated him. Still, he had to get many things done if he was going to meet his goals for the day, and so he gathered the tray and brought it to the table by the bed, phoned the front desk and finally, mercifully, was able to talk to someone about getting into his room. 

Sherlock snuck from John’s room with a quick peek in either direction; it wouldn’t do to fuel the rumor mill.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock managed a long workout, settling into his routine easily, allowing his mind to run over and over the turns in the course as he churned out leg press after leg press. It felt wonderful to sweat out his frustrations of the previous day, getting five miles in on the treadmill before he realized how far he’d run. He opted to run two more as he wasn’t fatigued and his legs felt strong; he’d gotten so much sleep the night before that he knew he’d have some extra energy to burn after an entire evening sitting at the opening ceremonies - the extra distance would do him good. 

He took his time in the showers, standing with his head ducked down under the spray for long minutes while other people came and went. The pounding, rushing water beat any remaining thoughts from his head and he felt some of the tension flake mercifully away. He had days to get focused on his upcoming race; right now he needed to try to center himself. Thoughts of John, of his ski team, of the flight to Russia and every step he’d taken to get where he was still pressed at him though he did his best to let them go, if only for the time being.

Before he left the athletic complex he opted for a massage that targeted his back and thighs, his two most problematic spots after a hard race. While on the table he again did his best to force all thought from his mind and sank into the sensation of the hands working at him. He drifted as he became more and more relaxed, dozing off to the low and calming music being piped in through the speakers. 

If Sherlock had to choose one benefit that came with being a professional athlete that he was very glad for having access to, regular therapeutic massages were it. Normally he didn’t like to be touched, and sometimes it still took a good while for him to relax under a professional’s ministrations, but once he did, his mind quieted and he found true solace, if only for a brief time. 

He returned to his room to worried messages from his agent; he’d left his mobile in his luggage and hadn’t called to inform him of the quality of the accommodations as he’d promised he would. There was a voicemail from his parents, the both of them gleeful over the prospect of watching the Parade of Nations that evening, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. There were a handful of well-wishes from representatives from his various sponsors and a quick word from his ex-coach Greg Lestrade, saying that he would be on hand, but two days earlier than anticipated. 

Sherlock hadn’t needed coaching in some years but the man continued to attend his races; it was as much for genuine moral support as it was an opportunity to drum up new business for himself. Sherlock’s parents had found Greg when they had been away on holiday in Norway. The coach too had been on holiday and it had been a well-timed comment regarding the condition of the powder by Greg to Sherlock’s father that outed him as a skiing coach. What was more was that he too resided in London, a fact that made his training the Holmeses’ son all the more appealing. It was a mutually beneficial match; Sherlock could practice on the slopes of the Alps when the opportunity presented and he’d be coached by Gregory Lestrade at home, at an indoor complex.

Greg had been good for Sherlock, breaking down the sport into its components and helping him channel his anger when he didn’t advance as quickly as he liked. Additionally, he didn’t put up with Sherlock’s precocious nature, being just as firm with the boy as he would have been with any adult he was training. Sherlock gained a great respect for him and, after training with him for two years, began to flourish on the youth circuit. 

He was glad that Greg would be attending the Games, though he was doubly glad to be away from his tutelage . Under the scrutiny of his coach, he couldn’t train to the extent he wanted; Greg always forced him to rest and recuperate, forced him to eat and watch tape of his runs. Sherlock championed actual physical skiing to tempered conditioning; why watch ages of tape when he could refine his technique on the actual snow?

Still, Greg’s presence would be good for him. He knew that often times he got bored and restless when at a venue for too long and just knowing that his ex-coach would be watching him would be enough to have him consider his behavior before acting in his usual, brash manner. _Not_ that Sherlock would ever admit that aloud. 

Sherlock slumped down onto his bed, quite content for the time being; he crossed his legs and closed his eyes, basking in a shaft of sunlight that was slotting in through the curtains and warming his pillow. He’d review the information packet about the Parade of Nations in a bit, but for the moment he wanted to relax and center himself, give his mind a bit more time to recover from the hell he’d put it through in the days previous.

Settling against his pillow, he fell into a light sleep and didn’t wake until there was insistent knocking at his door.

\---

The only reason Sherlock attended the Parade of Nations was his sponsors’ insistence. It made no difference to him whether he was seen as prideful of his country or a team player; why did participating in such a charade deem him worthy or unworthy of a medal? The entire thing was tedious, a complete waste of his time; the athletes were forced to be corralled together for hours before the ceremonies began.

His fellow Olympians usually took this as an opportunity to socialize, capture the moment in tweets and photographs which they then shared with the world, only to be glorified by the media. It was expected of them. After being asked on The Today Show why he didn’t have a twitter account, he called the idea pointless, needless dawdling and “rather trite, don’t you agree?” Following that exchange, the press had laid off of Sherlock on the social media front.

He tried to remain silent and undisturbed while people flitted around him, taking selfies and vocally editing the captions on them. Sherlock leaned up against a cinderblock wall, shades over his eyes, and immersed himself in reading a text about infectious diseases on his phone. 

Some of the younger team members tried to lure him into conversation but Sherlock would just smile in that frightening way of his and go back to the chapter on Creutzfeldt Jacob disease. It was madness beneath the stadium, hundreds of young, eager competitors, excited to mingle with other teams and engage in more base behavior. Sherlock hoped once his competitors were swept up in the air of revelry of the games, it would give him even more of an edge.

The cacophony around him faded to white noise after a time and he got through the rest of the book and began surreptitiously sizing people up from behind the veil of his Ray-Bans. He was surrounded by athletes from Great Britain, Brazil, Macedonia, and Hungary; in the immediate surrounding area he found three alcoholics, two people with opiate addictions, one gambler, one overt sadist and seven adulterers. Overcome with boredom, Sherlock wondered if the latter number was high amongst his sample size and then realized that he didn’t much care about that at all. Allowing his head to loll back against the cool stone, he kicked one foot against the cement flooring, feeling the last of his patience begin to thrum tenuously. 

It was at that moment that a Games representative came through and announced that they were beginning the procession momentarily, that they should smile for the many cameras. He rolled his eyes along with the woman’s words, having heard them before and not heeding them when he had the first several times. 

The group shuffled through the brightly lit corridor, their conversations dimming to hushed, excited whispers as they got closer and closer to the entrance ramp. The cheers and applause of the audience rang through the small space, making the ground and the tunnel shiver with the force of it. Sherlock peered down at his watch, wondering how long he would have to be subjected to this. 

He was staring at the ceiling when Great Britain was called and was prodded along by Jenny Jones, who he graced with a scathing glare before righting himself and marching up the ramp. Sherlock did his best to plaster on a grin - the sponsors would love that - and gave a few half-hearted waves before giving up and walking along, maneuvering around teammates who’d stopped to take photographs or ham it up for the cameras that were focused on them. 

Distantly Sherlock wondered if the announcers back home were commenting on his presence and wondering if their words were positive or harsh. He didn’t much care either way, as long as they _were_ talking about him. 

It was long minutes before they made it to their designated seating area and filtered into their spots. Sherlock pulled out his phone and brought up another article he’d been meaning to read, devling in headfirst as the rest of the audience watched the spectacle that was the Opening Ceremonies. Every now and again he would glance up and catch some of the theatrics; he had to admit they were visually spectacular, but it was not enough to hold his attention. 

He chatted absently when the people seated near him would bring him into the conversation, if only to stave off boredom. After a bit, he zoned out, taking the opportunity to call to mind the names and abilities of the other skiers against whom he would be competing. There was a large list and he compared himself to the others, knowing full well that his main competition would be James Moriarty. 

Sherlock frowned, leaned back, and ran over each of Moriarty’s stints on the podium, his weaknesses and the likelihood that at he would medal. Sherlock had to be snapped back to the present when there ceremonies ended, and he rose on rubbery legs to follow the flow of people out of the seats.

Sherlock fell in step with the rest of the athletes leaving the stadium and intended on going back to his room for perhaps then out for a jog before bed. The thought of languishing in his room didn’t much appeal to him and since he needed an outlet for the energy thrumming through him, he followed the throng of people off of the Olympic campus and down a road towards where the district of nightlife establishments began.

His lips twisted in annoyance but he didn’t slow his pace, just following the flow of people until the last of the group he’d followed with broke off and into a bar. Sherlock didn’t know where he was but he knew it wouldn’t be difficult to find his way back so he cut to the right, down a small avenue that funneled back out onto a larger boulevard. 

He could go left or right and just before he made a choice, he heard someone call his name. His head snapped up towards the sound and saw Molly jogging towards him. “Hey, heard about your issues with your room last evening. Came by this morning but you must have already been at the gym.”

“Yes, I was out early.” He didn’t bother informing her that he had in fact spent the night in another man’s room, in another man’s bed. He didn’t mention that the man wouldn’t stop niggling at his mind, picking at his resolve.

_Damn John Watson_.

Molly smiled sweetly at him and grabbed at his elbow. “Come in, get a pint. Greg’s here… somewhere.”

Sherlock was about to demure, to tell her that he’d speak with Greg tomorrow, but he saw two of Great Britain’s bobsledders spill out of the bar; this must have been the establishment that the entire team had chosen to frequent. Perhaps some of the staff for team Great Britain had come out tonight as well... 

Buoyed by that thought, he didn’t put up much of a fight when Molly threaded her arm through Sherlock’s and tugged on him until he followed along beside her. 

Though it was cool outside, it was humid and sticky in the bar, the main room populated with a mob of people donning the Union Jack. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust in the low lighting and he began making out the faces of the people around him. There were an awful lot of people with their arms around one another, tilting their faces into others’ too closely; Sherlock frowned at the spectacle and the stale tang of beer that hung in the air.

Molly patted his arm and made her way to the bar, effectively abandoning him, and for a moment he allowed his eyes to stray to the Russian feed of the opening ceremonies on the flatscreen television above the bar. His lips pursed in annoyance, he wondered if he could still get a jog in and managed to get to sleep without the endorphin interference when he spotted a familiar figure pressing his way through the crowd. 

“I’m guessing you don’t drink.” John sauntered up, mouth curled in a welcoming grin; he looked happy and carefree and for an inexplicable beat, Sherlock resented him. 

John’s eyes were a bit red and his gait sloppy; Sherlock ignored the niggling voice in his mind asking when he’d categorized John’s gait and _why_. “And you’re drunk.”

“Nah, a bit tipsy I’ll admit, but you gotta let loose once in awhile, yeah?” Sherlock watched as John’s hand moved to clap him on the shoulder twice. Even after he’d pulled away, Sherlock’s gaze lingered on the spot where his palm had just rested. 

Sherlock sniffed and stood a bit straighter, looking down his nose at John. “Must you? Let loose?”

“Well,” John smiled; Sherlock attempted not to be charmed by the crest of pink on his cheekbones. “Yeah, I mean… most people do.”

“Mmm, I think not,” he murmured, eyes strayed to where other members of his delegation were letting their hair down, imbibing and chatting, smiling and laughing and getting to know one another. 

Sherlock’s gaze followed John’s tongue as it peeked out to wet his lips. “So you’re not most people then?”

“No,” was Sherlock’s immediate reply.

“I’ll say,” John muttered, just loud enough for Sherlock to catch it as he ducked his head towards his pint glass. When John glanced back up from his beer, Sherlock was staring at him openly, considering. _I’ll say,_ what did _that_ mean, then? The bottom of Sherlock’s stomach flipped and turned and he felt his face heat while thinking on it; then heated further as the ire at his emotions showing so plainly lashed out.

John’s smile flickered before he caught it and it broke into a grin. “Got back into your room I take it.”

Not the most inventive segues into normal conversation and Sherlock found himself frowning at the banal attempt. “Yes, took some doing but eventually...”

Sherlock remained still, watching for the moment when John would realize that Sherlock didn’t particularly enjoy being engaged in small talk, waiting for the moment when John would decide that he shouldn’t bother. It was like this with most people; they would try for a bit and then disengage awkwardly, slinking away from him. Generally, Sherlock was rather fond of the way things played out. Now, he found himself wanting to be engaged, still confused as to just _why_.

Sherlock watched his eyes shift, watched John bite at his lip and smear a bit of foam down the side of his glass. It was coming, the generic goodbye, the uncomfortable severing of eye contact.

But John just moved to stand beside him, reached out the hand that held his pint and gestured towards a group of ice skaters.

John pressed his lips together and let the silence linger for awhile longer before he nudged Sherlock’s elbow with his own. “What you did with me on the plane. Do it to them.”

“What?”

“The thing, your observational ability thing. Tell me about them.”

“Are you angling to get off with one of the ice dancers?”

John snorted and sipped from his pint. “They’re fifteen years younger than me.”

“And?”

“So you can’t tell me about them?” John challenged, his little smirk hooking Sherlock.

“American, obviously, and you knew as much, I’d wager. They’re engaged in a romantic relationship though their coach is unaware. That’s probably for the best as their coach is a rather severe Slovak who is romantically interested in the male. The girl is reserved and can’t tell him that she blames him for the errors in their program. She’s also holding out on him in the hopes that he’ll get it together in time for their team performance. It won’t last; he just wants to have sex with her and she wants to win more than anything.”

John pressed the back of his free hand to his mouth, stifling a laugh. “That it?”

“They’re not going to win gold, that’s for certain. She can’t maintain the landing on her salchow, look at her ankles, and his lifts are slower than usual. He’s not training as he usually does, probably because he’s taken to smoking marijuana to unwind; makes him tired. Pair that with his rapidly deteriorating eyesight - he’s wearing glasses now when he’s off the ice when he used to favor contacts - likely means that he’s not going going to make it back for South Korea in 2018.“

“Wow.” John finished off his beer. 

Sherlock was about to continue, buoyed by John’s delight and surprise, when he felt a hand clasp on his shoulder. “Oi! Ever answer your phone?”

He spun around quickly, levelling the intruder with a glare that was meant to put him off. “Of course, but not whilst I’m being subjected to two hours of absolutely enthralling Russian history. I was just _fascinated_ , you see.”

Greg laughed and pulled him into a hug which a stiff Sherlock barely returned, rigid in his arms, though he did manage a weak pat on the back. “Sight for sore eyes you are. Still a hopeless arsehole.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed and glanced away from both of the men and up towards the television at the bar. His gaze cut briefly to John’s face, still open and smiling and happy, before settling resolutely on the television. 

“Told you he’s a dick, when he’s not talking about skiing he’s not talking at all,” Greg said.

“Wait, _you_ two know one another?” Sherlock asked incredulously, looking from Greg to John and back.

“As of an hour ago, yeah. That’s what people do at pubs, they chat over pints. This one was one of the only ones who wasn’t pissed straight away coming in here. Your team’s a bunch of lushes.” Greg laughed and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder once more. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing for me,” Sherlock murmured, seemingly engrossed in the coverage on the television.

Greg groaned in defeat and let him be but John nudged at him again, still smiling; Sherlock caught a whiff of his scent, spicy but muted, mingling with clean sweat and a crispness that lingered from the air outside. “Come on, one drink.”

“Why are you insisting?” His voice was low and rather than being cutting it had the edge of intrigue. John was doing his best to engage Sherlock, to get him to _stay_ ; it couldn’t be without motive, and Sherlock wanted to know why.

John shrugged and set his gaze steadfastly across the room. “Maybe I want someone to chat to, maybe I find you interesting and uncomplicated. But who knows, sorry I… pressed the issue.”

“Vodka soda.”

The double take that John did was, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, rather charming. “What was that?”

Sherlock sighed; he did so hate repeating himself. “Vodka soda, lime. Two limes, actually.”

There was a moment when John froze, stock still in place, and then he nodded, perhaps too quickly, and put his near-empty pint down on the table. “Yeah, yeah yeah. Be right back.”

John meandered through the crowd and elbowed his way to the bar; Greg was silent next to Sherlock until the crush of people effectively enveloped John and he was out of sight. 

“So,” Greg began, mock innocent. “New friend?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, scoffed audibly and glared across at Greg.

Greg pressed the issue. “He’s buying you a drink.”

“Don’t be stupid.” He leaned back on the hightop behind him, elbows resting on the slick wood, and pretended to observe the scene around him; he wasn’t searching for the reappearance of a blond head in the crowd - that would be insane. 

“Ah, uhm,” Greg held his glass to his lips, hiding his wolfish smile behind the rim. “New _more than_ friend?”

Sherlock turned his gaze sharply to Lestrade, deflecting easily, expertly. “What do you want with Molly Hooper?”

Lestrade blanched immediately, freezing with his pint halfway to the tabletop; and there it was, the split second of attempting to veil his true desires, and Sherlock knew he could hone in easily for the kill. He shifted from foot to foot and glanced away from Sherlock, uncomfortable, aware he was about to be flayed open. 

“You know you’re…” Sherlock continued, ready to inform Lestrade that he was much too old for Molly and that she had father issues and that there was only a very, very slim chance of anything working between them.

Lestrade licked his lips and took a shaky breath. “Alright, what, lay it on me. What’s wrong with this situation, what could possibly be wrong. Tell me everything now before I go in headfirst and cock it all up.”

Sherlock blinked once, caught Molly surreptitiously watching Lestrade out of the corner of her eye from where she stood waiting for her drink at the bar, and reconsidered. “Nothing.”

“What? _Nothing_? You always know so-”

“I said nothing; it’s nothing. Forget I said a thing.” Wasn’t that interesting, how the notion of cutting someone off at the knees didn’t thrill at the moment as it usually would, as it likely would have the day previous. It wasn’t that he didn’t have the heart. Sherlock was distracted, and causing undue chaos to the people around him would make him even more so. 

Greg pursed his lips in doubt but took the opportunity to change the topic. “First run went smooth?”

His head tottered back and forth. “That course is both a dream and a nightmare.”

“A challenge for you, then?” Lestrade’s eyes were still focused across the room at Molly, who was fighting diligently to get her drink from the bartender.

Sherlock conceded the truth; there was no point in denying the complexity of the course. “It will certainly test the merits of even the highest caliber athletes, yes.”

“Anything I can do?”

Sherlock generally never asked for help; he’d figure out difficult courses on his own and would defer only seldomly to the suggestions of his ski team. Lestrade was a different matter, however. He’d been skiing professionally for more years than Sherlock, and had captured more gold medals on the World Cup circuit than any Briton ever. Lestrade had a way of giving his advice in a “take it or leave it” fashion, which Sherlock appreciated. 

“If you wanted to have a look at the course with me on Sunday I would be… amenable.”

Greg snorted into his beer, “Yeah, right, can do.”

John chose that moment to reappear, holding three glasses in a triangle formation as he wove through the crowd, doing his very best not to spill them. “Right Molly said this one’s on her, Greg, and Sherlock, your vodka soda.”

“Two limes,” Sherlock noted, pleased.

“Uh, yep, that’s what you said, yeah?”

“Yes.”

John looked at him like he thought he was just the slightest bit mad, shrugged, and took a pull from his fresh beer. “Right, so.” John slipped up onto one of the stools and Greg followed suit, leaving Sherlock clutching his drink and standing there awkwardly. Under their scrutiny, he shifted up onto a stool himself, sipping primly from his drink.

“Alright, how do you two know one another? Did he follow you home, because Sherlock doesn't have friends.” Greg asked mock-innocently, head ducked down towards the table, eyes angled up and glancing between Sherlock and John.

John swallowed and tilted his chin in Greg’s direction. “On the plane actually, we both took a seat at the back of the plane-”

“I took a seat there, he happened to impose and sit beside me.”

“Right, yes, wanker. He thought he could have a whole row to himself-”

“Because he’s Sherlock Holmes,” Greg interjected, too happy.

“Yeah, yeah, and he, well, he was impressive. He… yeah,” John said, gulped and turned his attention away, swallowing a few hearty pulls of his beer. 

Greg laughed and Sherlock’s mouth perked up at John’s bashful but kind attitude. Settling his forearms on the table, he began to relax and took a sip from his drink. 

“John was kind enough to house me for the evening after that deplorable hotel locked me out of my room,” Sherlock added.

John went straight-backed and conspicuously silent while Greg leaned back on his stool and grinned. “You two shared a room… and John’s still alive…”

Sherlock set his mouth in a firm line; perhaps he shouldn’t have said a thing. He was so spectacularly _bad_ at this, at _conversation_. “Alright, alright.” 

“Well,” John added, turning his full attention back to the table; he licked his lips and gave Sherlock a steady glance before continuing, “I insisted. Can’t have a star athlete sleeping in the lobby, can we? And he was a perfect bunkmate, didn’t kick me once.”

“See, Lestrade, I’m not a complete monster.” John reached over and gave him a little pat on his shoulder. It was out of camaraderie, Sherlock was sure, but that didn’t stop his entire body from going sweet and warm with the contact.

Sherlock was shocked to find himself in a better than average mood, so much so that he wasn’t even a complete arse to Molly when she arrived and spilled some of her mojito on him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Maybe it’s that you’ve been training for so long that your body is on autopilot. Maybe it’s the course itself, maybe it’s a lot of things but, yeah. Just, I can’t believe I don’t have _any_ real critiques for you at the moment.” Lestrade chuckled and they climbed into the tram that would take them to the Village. “I don’t know - you almost look like you’re having _fun_ , that it’s not just work, but that you’re _enjoying_ it. Can’t quite say I’ve seen that look on you before.”

They poured out of the bar in the late hours of the evening, light with drink and good humor, the time having gone past midnight. Molly was doing her best to keep her arm through Greg’s as he gestured wildly at the climax of a story. What the story was about Sherlock couldn’t rightly say, as he wasn’t paying attention; the color of the flecks in John’s hair as they picked up the muted neon of the bar sign was too distracting. 

His head swam pleasantly with the burn of alcohol and Sherlock found his mouth curling into a soft smile for no reason at all. Situations such as these usually tended to grate on his nerves. Now, this time felt _different_ , and it was slightly disconcerting, but the flow pulled him and he went with it, too carefree to give very much of a toss. 

“And then he hit the snowbank and bloody well flew right into the river!” Greg sold the punchline by doubling over with laughter, his whole body shaking with it. Molly swung with him, her own sweet giggles pressed into his shoulder. John chuckled heartily, stumbling over a cobblestone as they made their way out onto the main thoroughfare; Sherlock found himself reaching out a hand and grabbing John’s bicep to stop him from falling.

John smiled goofily back at him, managing to right his balance. “So, Greg, you headed back to the hotel?”

Licking his lips, Greg fumbled over the words, bringing Molly just the slightest bit closer in at his side. “I’m uh, I’m…”

“I’ll make sure he makes it to bed,” Molly said, her cheeks flaming even as she glanced at the pair of them coquettishly, fingers curling possessively at Greg’s waist. She jutted her hip out so that it jostled Greg and they both had a silent little chuckle together.

Sherlock stared blankly at the pair while John barked a laugh and said, “Riiiiight, alright. Greg good to meet you, sure I’ll be seeing you later.”

Greg smiled and pulled his face away from where he had nestled it into the curve of Molly’s neck. “Oi, John, you’re a good man and it was brilliant meeting you. Sure we’ll be seeing more of one another. And take care of that one, eh? He’s not as tough as he looks.”

Molly tugged at Greg’s arm in warning and he stumbled forward, being led away from Sherlock and John, who watched them go with twin expressions of bewilderment. “What’s that mean?” John asked, glancing up briefly at Sherlock before turning in the direction of the Village and their hotel.

Sherlock shoved his hands into his pockets and followed along beside at a distance he deemed to be safe and acceptable; after a few moments, however, he found himself drawn closer to John’s side, so close that their arms brushed and knuckles knocked, and neither moved away. He was warm with drink and company and felt his chest creak and expand as he acknowledged that John clearly wanted to spend time with him; he’d gone out of his way to get Sherlock to stay at the bar and the obviousness of the attempt made Sherlock’s pulse beat wildly with ridiculous possibility. Sherlock licked his lips, willed himself under control and said, feigning disinterest, “The ramblings of a drunkard, I suppose.” 

John hummed noncommittally and walked on, and for a time neither one of them said a thing. Sherlock was content to glance at John out of his periphery, noting his shortened gait and the set of his shoulders, the utilitarian cut and style of his coat. Conventionally attractive, Sherlock supposed, with a pleasant and unassuming demeanour. There was the mystery of him too, the possibility of something harder and more dangerous; perhaps he used his sad jumpers to hide the soldier in him, the harder, rougher edges. 

“So, you don’t have friends.” It was sudden, out of the blue and said conversationally, as though to be passed as aloof and not prying - but Sherlock saw through the facade. Perhaps he had been right about John at first blush, it had just taken John longer to get here, to the place where he was critical and offput about the “oddities” of Sherlock Holmes. 

His expression darkened but John didn’t see, staring steadfastly ahead. “Pardon?”

John cleared his throat and spoke quickly, “What Greg said, you don’t have… friends.”

There was a lengthy pause before Sherlock said the only thing he could think of. “No.”

“And you like it that way? Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Sherlock very nearly felt John pulling away, the gentle camaraderie that they’d somehow managed to build over the past few days withering. It left a hollowness in the center of Sherlock’s chest, but he was rather used to that feeling. “There’s the work of course, and most people are tedious and trite. It’s an absolute nightmare just trying to have a conversation with anyone _normal_.”

John chuckled, but didn’t recoil. Sherlock hated him for it, hated him for pressing, for not just giving in and brushing Sherlock off as a lost cause. He hated that he didn’t particularly wish to be left alone by him, that he inexplicably wanted John to know every last thing about him. 

Sherlock felt like he was being picked apart slowly from the inside and being sewn straight back together, moment by moment, waiting for John’s next move, next words. 

Perhaps it was the drink, or the pressure of being around someone he liked so very much. Maybe he still needed time to adjust to the altitude. The higher part of his brain shouted that theory effectively down, leaving only the weaker notion - that he was entranced, in every sense of the word, by John Watson - lingering in the forefront of his mind and he didn’t want to lose him just yet.

“Right, so, Greg’s not your friend and Molly isn’t your friend.”

“Greg is my ex-coach and Molly is a member of my prep team,” Sherlock explained, slowly losing what little patience he had left.

“You just seem very chummy with them,” John goaded.

“I’ve known them for years,” Sherlock said, a thread of annoyance now making its way into his tone.

John hummed. “Right. _Friends_.”

“Why must you insist? You’re always… insistent.” Sherlock growled; John insisted even when he wasn’t present, elbowed his way into Sherlock’s thoughts and wouldn’t leave until Sherlock turned him over in his mind a few times.

John stopped abruptly and turned to face him. “Know me well enough to make assumptions about what I’m always doing?”

Sherlock glared petulantly and kept his lips tightly locked, to which John gave a short chuckle, continuing on. “Well, if that’s the case, seems you and I, we’re _friends_ now too, then.”

“Oh _fantastic_ ,” Sherlock murmured, managing to sound for all intents and purposes genuinely put out by the idea that they might be friends. He couldn’t rightly account for the thrill of giddiness that rushed to his head and made his mouth want desperately to pull back in delight.

They managed the rest of the walk in relative silence, avoiding the droves of drunken revelers that were lingering in the streets. John looked at it all in with an air of fascination and good humor while Sherlock cringed internally. While he would normally wish for the solace of his hotel room, he found himself rather relieved that John hadn’t buggered off yet; it was for that reason alone that he was willing to put up with the nonsense of being out in public. 

Walking was slower with John, whose gait was smaller and who seemed genuinely interested in taking in his surroundings. This was his first Olympic Games after all; it only made sense. Sherlock did his best to mind his patience, wanting to linger alongside John for as long as he was able; it was rather a novel sensation when he didn’t immediately want to break for the hotel once it was in sight. 

They wandered through the lobby in silence and John slung an arm behind his back as he bowed forward to press the ‘up’ button for the elevator. “Tonight… you ah, you don’t do things like that often.”

“Never,” Sherlock agreed.

“But you had a good time.”

“Nominally,” he said with the ghost of a smile, his cheeks rounding and darkening them with the slightest flush.

John took a breath, which Sherlock found puzzling, before saying, “Then let’s do it again, yeah?”

Sherlock frowned. “Why would you possibly want to do that again?”

The car arrived and they shuffled in; John waited for the door to close before he explained himself. “Because _I_ had fun and… I don’t get on with many people. You’re very… honest, and that’s helpful. It’s uhm, it’s helpful.”

 _Trust issues_ flashed before the screen in Sherlock’s mind and he filed it away as another important fact about John. John’s hands balled into fists at his sides as he stared forward at the doors of the elevator. Sherlock gazed openly at him, puzzling him out until the bell rang for their floor and wordlessly, they exited. 

“Right,” John murmured, already headed in the direction of his room, fingers still curled tightly into his palm. “Well, I suppose… I, ehm, g’night.”

Sherlock watched him walk away for a long moment, and something inside of him pulled and tugged, grasped at his throat and beat in his mind. Sherlock was honest and John liked that. 

“John,” he called nearly desperate, just before the man had disappeared down the corridor towards his room. He turned and looked back at Sherlock with a hopeful expression. “I did,” Sherlock swallowed thickly, suddenly quite nervous. “Have fun, that is.”

“Ah,” John said, ducked his head and then grinned, turning the full force of his smile on Sherlock. “Well, good.”

Sherlock smiled and watched as John rounded the corner before retreating to his own room.

\---

He slept like the dead.

Between the alcohol and the intense workout he’d had in the morning, his body was just about ready to give in. Sherlock remembered belatedly that he hadn’t had a thing to eat since lunch time save for some pretzels at the bar, but couldn’t be arsed to get out of bed to find food once he’d drawn the covers over himself. 

He dreamt distantly of cornfields flecked with stalks of gray, of the tumultuous ocean and of soldiers lying low and preparing for combat.

He awoke early and had a languid stretch, feeling each and every one of his muscles sing with the effort of it. Morning sunlight dappled the floor and bed, and from his position against the pillows Sherlock could see the sky, azure and beckoning. He felt his tongue give a little thrum and he could nearly taste it: the clear, crisp air of the mountain. 

Feeling positively energized and thankfully not too wretched from the alcohol, Sherlock sprang from the bed and went off to have a long shower, mind humming with the possibilities that a few runs down the other practice courses held. He didn’t want to use one of his two practice runs today, so far away from the actual race, and besides, Greg hadn’t even had a look at the course yet. 

He spent a considerable time in the shower, allowing the hot water to ease some of the regular tension in his muscles. Head towards the spray, he smiled into it, realizing how ridiculous he was being at allowing the spark of excitement about the course, about John, about it _all_ to wake him fully, just as the water was. Long minutes were dedicated to scraping his fingernails against his scalp as he shampooed and conditioned his hair and scrubbed himself down. He lingered once he was through, fingers wandering below his waist to ghost over his cock. 

Sherlock ran the backs of his fingers down against the soft skin, gently slicking along the foreskin before snatching his hand away as though burned. Sherlock didn’t often indulge in self-pleasure, and even if he were to, it was dangerous territory at present. That would be allowing his normally focused mind to stray; to fantasize about someone he’d _just_ decided to cautiously consider a friend was a terrible, terrible idea. Sherlock quickly wrapped up his shower and stepped out into the steamy room. 

He toweled off quickly and had a shave, ignoring his erection and spending perhaps a bit too much time regarding his countenance in the mirror. He knew he was an attractive person, and paid close attention to his styling, but he wondered momentarily if perhaps John found him attractive. A groan escaped him and he allowed his forehead to fall forward and thunk against the slippery glass of the mirror. 

He peeled open his eyes and looked at his visage from around the bridge of his nose; this was hopeless. He needed to do his best not to seek out John again, unconscious of it or not. He wasn’t sure exactly how friends acted towards one another, especially not this early in a relationship, but he had a sinking suspicion that this was not it.

Sherlock tore himself dramatically away and went into the bedroom to get dressed, checking his phone as he pulled on a pair of spandex pants. Greg had texted several times.

‘Just saw two guys wipe out on the course, you weren’t kidding.’

‘Slovakia’s third string racer is out, hit the Trampoline and tore his ACL.’

‘John told me that last bit by the way. When are you getting up here?’

Sherlock checked the clock and typed a quick response back. It wasn’t too late, and he figured he had a chance for a quick breakfast, so he pulled on a pair of loose but thick sweatpants over his spandex and prepared to head out. He set his teeth against his bottom lip as he acknowledged John’s presence on the course. It made _sense_ , he was a medic for the ski team _specifically_ ; of course he’d be on hand at Rosa Khutor. 

Sherlock’s obvious oversight mocked him and he grit his teeth hard as he pulled on the rest of his kit, shrugging into his heavy team parka and loading his gear bag and determinedly _not_ thinking at all of John Watson. 

He made a stop in the cafeteria and did a very thorough job of carbo-loading, so much so that he took a photograph of his food and sent it to Greg. He knew it would needle at him that Sherlock was finally preparing for a race properly and didn’t have to be forced into it by a well-meaning but particularly annoying coach.

By the time he made it up to the top of the runs, the sun was high in the sky, so bright it nearly rendered Sherlock’s sunglasses moot. Still, he took it all in from the tram, his outer visage looking for all the world to be the uninterested, seasoned skier; inside, his organs were thrumming with the desire to get on the slopes. It was an addiction, and withdrawal was rearing its head rather spectacularly. 

His team met him at the prepping area, all looking a bit worse for wear. Molly did her best to hide her face between her hat and her scarf, eye squinting even behind the sunglasses she wore. Hair braided into pigtails, steps shuffling through the snow rather than stomping, gait shorter; she was slightly hungover and had surely gotten Lestrade _into bed_ as promised.

The latter was nowhere to be found and Sherlock frowned; he’d been so insistent in his texts, Sherlock had expected him to be on hand with the rest of the staff. 

“Ah, Molly, do you have the newest goggles, the ones I’ve yet to try?” he asked, moving efficiently around the area until he found the bench next to where his gear was prepared. She came up beside him belatedly, reaching into one of his sleek gear bags to produce the goggles.

“I, erm, here,” she shoved them towards him whilst biting her lip and Sherlock took them, frown turning even deeper.

“I’ve not had to reprimand you prior to now regarding your behavior but if you can’t seem to manage both a silly, romantic dalliance and your job, I’ll find someone who is quite capable of it.”

Molly took a step back, huffed, but was not deterred “Listen, just because you don’t like to have fun-”

“Please don’t insult my-”

But she spoke over him, tipping her chin up definitely. “Because _you_ don’t like to have fun doesn’t mean you’re better than I am, or any of us. And don’t pretend like you didn’t have fun last night, you did, you’re just somehow not…”

“Hungover?” Sherlock asked, rather proud of himself.

“Yes,” she agreed, swallowing thickly. “That. And I’ve given you your damned goggles so what’s got you so worked up -- oh wait,” she said with an wretched little giggle. “Did that doctor-”

“And I’ll be needing the black gloves, not the green ones, post haste, chop chop!” Sherlock tested the goggles against his skull, pulled them off and readjusted, ignoring Molly’s insinuation entirely. It was only a moment before she returned, gloves in hand and a knowing smile on her lips.

Molly continued smiling down at him as he tugged them on his hands and pulled then back off. She smiled and smiled until he looked up and made direct eye contact with her. The words, when they came, were distinct and left no room for interpretation; she even folded her arms over her chest for effect. “You like him.”

“Pardon?” 

“That John fellow, you _like_ him,” she shot back immediately.

Sherlock severed their gaze, unloading his practice suit and laying it out beside him. “He’s a _friend_.”

“You don’t have friends,” she mocked.

“Are you quite through?” Sherlock growled and stood, motioning for the rest of his prep crew to make their way over.

Molly pulled her grin into a small, pursed smile. “Right, yeah. John’s your friend, I think that’s fantastic, for what it’s worth. And by the way? I’m your friend too, that’s why when you say all of those awful things, I don’t slap you.”

Rolling his eyes, he brushed her aside and turned to his ski specialist Phillip, who had packed several new pairs for Sherlock to try out. It had taken some time but eventually his team had realized that between training runs and time in the gym, Sherlock needed to keep himself occupied and nothing bored Sherlock more than repetition. Taking several runs down a course on the same skis would put Sherlock in a mood and thus, they always had a bag of tricks on hand to keep him guessing.

Phil presented him with some Rossignols, top of the line and not yet on the market, and Sherlock sat back to admire them. “They’re waxed?”  


“Spent an hour getting them down as slick as possible.” The tech stepped back, pressed his glasses onto the bridge of his nose and ran his fingers over his beard. “Took ages but those, christ, they’re better than sex.”  


Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he glanced up from under his lashes. “What?”  


“They’re… they’re fucking sexy. They _fly_ , or so I’ve heard. Guy outta Norway’s been betaing them.”  


Sherlock slipped his hands over the slick, smooth surface of the carbon fiberglass, getting his nose down close to the face to hear the whisper of his skin against the wax. It was magical, like Verdi but more complex, yet simple all the same. Sherlock wanted to press his lips right to the surface but refrained, adoring the way the rays glanced merrily off of the glassine cover. 

Lestrade made his appearance then, a cup of coffee in hand, head swallowed by the enormous hood of his parka. “Good of you to show up,” Sherlock lashed out, checking the bindings on his skis.

“I could say the same of you. You're usually the first one up here. What did you do, linger over breakfast?”

Sherlock answered him with a glare, testing the give of the boots in the straps and sliding the skis once through the snow to test the resistance. “Nearly fainted when I saw that picture by the way,” Lestrade poked fun, sipping at his coffee. “Didn’t know you had enough room in yah for all of that food.”

Ignoring him, Sherlock shifted his skis again, thrilled at the ease with which they moved over the tightly packed snow. “These will… suffice,” Sherlock decided, betraying nothing of the immediacy with which he needed to take the skis to the slope. “Let’s take all of this over, I want to try a few runs on these.”

His team gathered his gear and made their way over to the general practice area for the downhill, a course that looked even from above to be vastly less complex than the Olympic course. Sherlock was both glad and disappointed by this. His mind and body craved the adrenaline rush, and a day without, anticipating the run, left him feeling parched and unsatisfied. Sherlock knew he wouldn’t feel quite totally whole until he’d gotten down that hill at least once.

Blood pulsed through his veins, slicking into and out of his heart; his body waiting for the moment when the muscle would beat double, triple, the adrenaline satisfying his seemingly undying craving. 

It took him only a few minutes to get himself geared up; at the last moment he switched his helmet out, going for a new, untested model. 

“The camber on those is super thin, so pay attention to how they react on the hairpin turns,” Phil called, and Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling his goggles down firmly over his face.

“Yes,” he returned, inching up to the gate. “I am _aware_.”

“Hey,” Phil shot back, shrugging. “This is what you pay me for.”  


With a last wiggle of his arse, Sherlock got into position behind the gate, hunching low on his skis and looking down the magnificently blanched mountain. His team melted into the background and all Sherlock could hear was the whipping of the wind and then three starter beeps.  


It was slow motion, leaving the gate. He shoved off so hard that he didn’t make contact with the snow for a second or two but when he did, something burst to life inside of him, suffusing his entire being with simultaneous riot and calm.  


The skis were a _dream_ , taking the first turn with very little effort at all; he’d have to remember the ease with which they responded. If he threw too much weight into a turn he’d skid out. Sherlock committed the note to memory in a split second and focused on the next bit of the course. He focused precisely on the stetch of snow in front of him, shifting his knees and his hips, faltering slightly as he hit a carved section of the snow. Righting himself with an adjustment to his pole, he flew over a small but significant jump.

For a moment in the air, everything went blissfully quiet and still; his breath halted in his chest and his mind blinked offline for the briefest of flashes.  


When he met with the snow once more his mind bolted back to life, reminding him not to take the next left-facing curve too quickly; he eased his legs into the turn, his hips canting _just so_. Air whizzed past his body as he focused upon the stark, red ending line that lay up ahead.  


Sherlock hunkered down, sitting against his thighs and pushing himself to go as fast as possible. The skis certainly helped, and he made another note to see what the team thought about him trying them out on the actual course. That would give him only one run, really, to decide which pair he’d use in the qualifying round, but he was confident that once he had another go down the slopes, he’d be able to make a decision. 

He crossed the finish line with a cutting little swish of his skis, skidding up to where the finisher’s backdrop would normally be; he fitted his goggles onto the forehead of his helmet and gazed up at the mountain. That had felt good, brilliant in fact, and in a moment Sherlock found himself unstrapping his feet and setting back up the mountain for another run.

It was a good three hours before his ski team had decided he’d had enough, a common occurrence for them; oftentimes Sherlock simply didn’t know when to quit. 

Lestrade sidled up to him as he was peeling off his Lycra in the hut. “Bit of advice?”

Sherlock considered; he didn’t need coaching anymore, but sometimes Lestrade’s blunt words were just what he needed to hear. “Go.”

“Don’t go with the Rossignols; stick to what you know. You don’t want another factor playing into this; keep it consistent. And you know, whatever you’re doing differently, keep it up. I’ve seen you focused before but this is… something else.”

Sherlock considered, silently. 

“What?” Lestrade asked, tugging on his leather gloves and slinging his gear bag over his shoulder.

“I suppose I’m not… I mean… I don’t know.” Sherlock’s brow lifted in confusion; something _was_ different, he just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Lestrade shrugged in answer. “Maybe because it’s your last go… what have you got left to lose?”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock picked up his own bag and fell in step alongside him.

“Maybe it’s that you’ve been training for so long that your body is on autopilot. Maybe it’s the course itself, maybe it’s a lot of things but, yeah. Just, I can’t believe I don’t have _any_ real critiques for you at the moment.” Lestrade chuckled and they climbed into the tram that would take them to the Village. “I don’t know - you almost look like you’re having _fun_ , that it’s not just work, but that you’re _enjoying_ it. Can’t quite say I’ve seen that look on you before.”

Sherlock always craved it, needed it, the rush, the danger, the adrenaline. To think that he hadn’t exuded _joy_ over one of the very few things he found happiness in was strange, wasn’t it? “I…” he began, thinking on it a moment longer. “I am. I’m having fun.”

Lestrade smirked at him.

“I think,” Sherlock frowned.

He turned his gaze out the window, looking at the mountains in the distance and waiting for the tram to start up. Sherlock was startled from his reverie as Lestrade greeted someone boisterously, offering up a seat with them. 

John sat beside Lestrade, rosy cheeked and windswept, scarf wound high around his neck. “Two more serious injuries; who designed this course? Hey Sherlock,” John gave a tip of his chin and Sherlock returned it likewise.

“Oi, back in a mo’,” Lestrade said suddenly, abandoning his seat. “I’ve got to have a word with Mol.”

“Mol?” Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade made his way off, smacking Sherlock on the bicep as he passed. “Shut up.”

John smiled at Sherlock, and Sherlock gave a half-smile back, and they fell into silence, Sherlock picking at lint on his trousers and John just watching him for a spell. “Right,” John cut in when they were minutes from their destination. “I’ve got a few hours off shift before I come back for the night runs; let’s get lunch.”

“I… what?” Sherlock’s hands paused over his knees.

John silently chuckled, head lolling back on his shoulders; he looked down at Sherlock from over the bridge of his nose. “Lunch, would you like to get lunch?”

“Back at- back at the Village?” Sherlock abhorred repeating himself, and here he was, doing it unconsciously. 

“Or in town or… wherever?”

Sherlock did want to, very much, but the obvious reasons he shouldn’t were remembered immediately. Not just the fact that Sherlock had made a promise to himself to try to _avoid_ John, but the more immediate reasons. If he was seen on numerous occasions with John, the rumors would begin anew, and Sherlock wasn’t sure how John would handle that.

For a brief second Sherlock hated himself, hated that he’d found someone that he wanted to spend time with, that he desired to be around and that he had to warn him off. “John..” he began, searching for the words to explain to him just what a terrible idea this was. “I’m sure you’ve seen the rumors about me. If we’re seen together frequently, I can assure you that the press-”

“Yeah, sod the press,” John said lazily with a shrug.

Sherlock frowned and pressed on, “And considering that the rumors would be even more damning in the current political climate, I don’t think it’s-”

“Are you hungry?”

Sherlock sighed and bit the terse response that he had on his tongue. “Yes.”

The tram stopped, announcing their arrival at the Village; John stood, slung his kit over his shoulder and made a gesture with his head towards the exit. “Then stop overthinking it, let’s go get food.”

Sherlock stood, swallowed thickly. “It’s not that simple.”

“It really is,” John smiled once and then led the way out of the tram, talking to Sherlock even as Sherlock lingered behind. “Now, what are you in the mood for?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, for his part, was caught up by John’s response. _You’ll get it next time_ ; he’d heard that before, but where? Not in casual conversation, no. No, that was something you said to someone on a date, on a _first_ date, in fact. That was something you said when you wanted to see the other person again.

After dropping their bags off with the staff in the lobby of the hotel - Sherlock made sure to impress upon them the importance of _not losing_ their items - they headed out of the Village and down the main thoroughfare.

Sherlock hadn’t had much Russian food before, but that unfortunately seemed to be the only option available to them outside of the Village cafeterias; he’d make do with whatever John chose, he was sure, as food wasn’t particularly important to him. “Why don’t we just walk until we find something that catches our fancy?” John had suggested, and lacking any recommendation of his own, Sherlock agreed.

And so they strolled along much as they had the night previous, Sherlock allowing John to steer them through the crowds. Sherlock was stopped twice by well-meaning passersby, wishing him luck and asking for a photograph. John stood back with a smile each time, graciously accepting the camera and snapping the shot, holding his chuckles for after the people had retreated. 

“You’re kind of a big deal,” John poked.

“I am.”

There was a sigh and Sherlock turned to look down at John. He was smiling, shaking his head. “God, your ego is enormous.”

Sherlock shrugged, hands deep in the pockets of his light jacket. “Why lie? I’m fantastic at what I do.”

John tipped his head to the side in concession, but it was a rather long moment before he said, “That, that you are.” 

They continued on, glancing at the menus posted outside, trying to decipher what the shoddy english translations of the food actually meant. They were bent over and gazing at a menu outside of a rustic looking establishment when Sherlock spoke. “And you, you’re quite good at what you do.”

“Oh yeah?” John pulled back to his full height and looked him up. “And how do you know that?”

“You’re proud, but you carry it in a way that speaks to your abilities and not false imaginings you have of yourself. You’ve a surgeon’s hands though you’ve clearly not performed surgery in years and yet you chose to stay within the medical profession. Oftentimes when surgeons suffer conditions that cause them to lose their dexterity they eschew medicine entirely. Yet, you stay. You’re a thrill seeker, already having told me about your days as a biathlete. Between that and the army it’s clear to see why you’re here; you want a change of pace, something exciting that you can’t predict. And, the chance to help people with potentially serious injuries, nasty injuries skiers endure.”

Sherlock took a breath and noted that John’s eyes had gone wide but his attention was rapt; he carried on. “People with a history of service in the military, like you, have seen some fairly terrible things, and I can’t imagine you would want to carry on treating people if you found the profession to be too painful or frightening. You _know_ you’re good at what you do, anyone can read it all over your face. That… is how I know that you are more than just a suitable doctor, you’re a damn good one.”

John wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue before sliding it back quickly into his mouth; he took a step back, bracketed his hands on his hips and then, thinking better of it, dropped his hands down at his sides in fists. “That was…”

Sherlock held his breath, waiting for John’s assessment. _Awful_ , his mind supplied, _overstepping_ , _intrusive_ , _weird_. 

“Bloody hell, that was fantastic. Am I really that transparent?”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied, feeling as though his chest was expanding with the praise; his vision thrummed a little at the edge, his whole being pleased at John’s reaction. “People see, but they do not observe. One only has to look closely at you, really think about what they’re seeing.”

John’s lips twitched into a smile. “Well-”

“But you don’t let people look too closely,” Sherlock supplied before he had a moment to think about it. The words shocked John, who snapped his mouth shut, smile sliding from his face. 

“No, I suppose not.”

“But you let me,” Sherlock said curiously, more for his own benefit than for John’s, and the two of them stood there on the pavement in silence as Sherlock retreated into his mind to puzzle out that bit of information. 

John shifted on his feet, looking down at his shoes, and when he glanced up, he had a smile on his face. It didn’t reach his eyes. “How’s this place, look okay?”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock replied distractedly before snapping out of his reverie, and he stepped forward to hold the door for John as they ducked inside.

They were seated at a booth near the back, flanked by two large windows that allowed in the alleyway light, patchy and dim as it was; in the center of the room a large, massive stone fireplace crackled and popped pleasantly, regardless of the fact that it was actually rather temperate outside. Sherlock spread his hands out wide on the table and took up a menu, scanning the front and the back quickly before setting it back down.

John looked deep in concentration, reviewing the offerings carefully, running his finger alongside as he read. “Yeah this doesn’t… not a lot of this makes sense.”

Sherlock said nothing but watched John flip his menu twice more before setting it down and waving over the waiter. “Hello, yeah, could you possibly just bring us whatever’s most popular? Just a few dishes to try?” When the young man left to put in their orders, they both sat back against the booth, casually studying one another.

John’s lip twitched. 

Sherlock blinked.

John broke the silence. “You had a good run this morning?”

“Adequate.”

“Well, it looked like it was brilliant.” John’s tone was low and nearly petulant at Sherlock’s blasé attitude, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he sealed it lips up rather tightly.

A little clamor of something stirred in Sherlock’s gut and he aimed for nonchalant when he asked, “You were watching me?”

John bit his lip and turned to look out the window, then shifted to glance across the expanse of restaurant before finally turning his eyes back on Sherlock. “Kind of hard not to. You look like a dream out there.”

Sherlock’s heart kicked violently in his chest and he did his best to maintain his cool, tipping his chin ever so slightly to give the air of aloofness. “I. I don’t-”

“It’s a compliment,” John rushed to explain, but Sherlock just frowned.

“I know it is.”

John sucked in a breath, fidgeting against the faux leather of the booth. “Right. I… sorry.”

“No, it’s quite alright. I don’t mind.” Sherlock heard himself saying the words as though from a distance, from under leagues and leagues of ocean, or like he was in vacuum. They sounded clunky and muffled and not at all what he wanted to say. “That is to say, that you’re watching my performance is… good.”

John blinked at him.

“You’re quite welcome to observe my runs on the course whenever you’d like.” His stomach roiled unpleasantly, turning with embarrassment. Now it seemed as though he _wished_ for John’s attention, was asking for it; though he did, he certainly didn’t want to be _plain_ about it; that wouldn’t do at all. The man had him confused and slightly reckless and wanting, wanting of something he only had the most _vague_ idea of.

Still, each time he saw John, that want seemed to manifest, take on more of a whole idea, a real, identifiable shape. Sherlock’s lips twitched impatiently as he willed the idea of John to solidify wholly so that he could understand it, begin to make some sense of it.

When he glanced up at John once again, John was smiling warmly at him, as though he were a marvel, as though he were someone deserving of such a tender gesture of affection. “Well,” he breathed, patting the table with a hand. “After this morning I think we deserve some vodka.”

Sherlock shelved his serious thoughts for later. “Alright.”

\---

By the time their food arrived they’d both tried two of the four vodkas they had been brought to sample. Sherlock felt warm and heavy, delightful really, and he noted the way John had melted back into his seat, legs splaying out just the slightest bit further apart beneath the table. 

Their knees had bumped three times - not that Sherlock was counting - and each time, John made a quick apology and wouldn’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. “This isn’t as bad as I’d thought,” John said around a mouthful of food.

Sherlock shrugged, pushing a last bit of beef stroganoff around his plate before setting the utensil carefully down with a delicate chime. “Where did you study, when you were pursuing medicine?” They’d been speaking of inane things for the past hour; the mountain, Lestrade and Molly, the make and model of skis Sherlock was using featured prevalently, but the effluvia didn’t tell Sherlock anything new about John, and he desperately wished to learn the whole of him.

“Ah, Bart’s… before heading over. Practiced for three years before going over.” Pressing his napkin to his mouth, John learned forward, arms resting against the table. “You?”

“Cambridge.”

“Really?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, setting the base of his skull against the back of the booth. “Dull.”

“No, what did you study, come now. Wait, I’ll guess. Hm, from the papers and the articles you seem like a science buff. I’m going to guess you read physics. Or, no, that’s too… chemistry. You look like the type of bloke that would read chemistry.” There was a mischievous glint in his eye and Sherlock got caught up in it, lips curving into a grin as he looked down the line of his nose at John.

He said nothing.

“I’m right,” John said triumphantly. “Aren’t I?”

“You read that in one of the articles.” It was no secret that Sherlock enjoyed dallying with chemistry, experimenting on whatever he could get his hands on. The human body in particular fascinated him, and it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that one might open the freezer at his flat and find an eyeball or two. Still, he wasn’t sure how he _looked_ like someone who might be interested in chemistry. 

John huffed, “I most certainly did not! You just… look like the type of man who likes a good... experiment?”

“You wouldn’t be wrong, there,” Sherlock said smoothly. John’s eyes shifted, very plainly too, and Sherlock filed that away eagerly. John might not be interested in anything overt at the moment, but it was becoming rather plain that John found him attractive, at the very least. “But yes, chemistry at Cambridge.”

John nodded for a few long moments as he regarded Sherlock with calm eyes. “A chemist… who is a professional skier…”

“One must have hobbies outside of one’s passion, don’t you think?”

“Which is the hobby?” John asked on a laugh. “The skiing or the science?”

“The science of course. Though it is a rather handy background to have as one ages out of one’s profession.”

“You’re not that old yet.”

“I won’t be able to compete in the circuit again, this is my last year. It’s nothing to do with age but with the deterioration of the body. More precisely, my knees can no longer take it.” Sherlock saw the chance and he took it, knocking one of his knees against John’s. It was risky, a move like that, when they were out in public but the thrill at doing so negated any consequence that might become of it.

John smiled, his voice dipping lower; he took the pause to settle his onto the heel of his palm atop the table, elbow propping his arm up. “So what will you do, then? Coach?”

“ _God_ no, just the notion of it sounds bleak. Can you even imagine how dreadful that would be? No, I like puzzles, I like solving puzzles. I’ve been known to, on occasion, investigate crimes and infidelities at the behest of paying clients. Perhaps that, perhaps…”

“Like a P.I.?”

Sherlock closed his eyes and smiled. “Something like that.”

They were perfectly content to smile at each other for a time, the murmur of the restaurant closing around them like a cocoon. Between the food, the vodka, and the heat from the fireplace, Sherlock felt sleepy. Sleepy and well-fed, a sensation he hadn’t experienced or wanted to experience for quite some time. Their reverie was broken when the waiter came and wordlessly slipped the bill onto the table.

John gave him a half smile and fished out his credit card, just as Sherlock was doing his best to extract his wallet from his jacket. “Don’t worry about it, it’s on me.”

“I can’t-”

“You’ll get it next time,” John said pleasantly, and returned to lounging against the booth. Sherlock, for his part, was caught up by John’s response. _You’ll get it next time_ ; he’d heard that before, but where? Not in casual conversation, no. No, that was something you said to someone on a date, on a _first_ date, in fact. That was something you said when you wanted to see the other person again.

 _Was_ this a date?

Sherlock watched the waiter come and snatch up the check, and shifted minutely in the seat. Who stumbled blindly into a date without realizing it? Surely, if anyone were to realize they were being led into a date it would be Sherlock Holmes. It couldn’t possibly be anything resembling a date; John had just said the evening previous that they were _friends_. 

He’d been silent for some time and he realized that the polite thing to do when one was treated to a meal was to thank the person who’d paid. “I will; next time is most certainly on me.” He was surprised at how level and even his voice sounded when inside he was so damned conflicted. “Thank you very much.”

“Mmm, you can treat me, somewhere better than this, yeah?”

“What do you like?” Sherlock could tell what John liked, on the surface; he liked danger and sunlight, strong red ales, salty over sweet, and the color evergreen, in particular. There were reams and reams of things that Sherlock was sure John liked, and he wasn’t particularly comfortable with how readily he accepted that he wished to know what all of them were.

“Oh, loads. I can’t pass up tapas and Mediterranean. Italian, particularly though.”

“Ah, I know this brilliant little place on Northumberland Street, Angelo’s-”

John interrupted him with a bright grin, “You want to treat me when we’re back in _London_?” Until that moment Sherlock didn’t know where John lived, but that knowledge was promptly superseded by acknowledging the fact that yes, it _had_ sounded like Sherlock was asking him to dinner when they got back to Britain. After the Olympics.

Sherlock blinked. “I was merely making conversation.”

There was a beat when Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d said the right thing; John’s eyes narrowed and he gazed questioningly across the expanse of table. Sherlock held his breath, couldn’t help watching as John’s tongue peeked out at the side of his mouth.“Is it? Brilliant? Angelo’s?” John was resting his hands flat on the table and Sherlock wanted to surge across the table and rest his mouth on the man’s knuckles.

“Quite.” In that moment Sherlock could _hear_ the blood rushing through his head as his mind whizzed at lightning speed, picking apart the word _quite_ and just what he was offering with that.

There was an a long moment that felt like an eon as John sized him up; everything went startlingly quiet, his inner monologue seeming calamitous in juxtaposition.

“Right, well, don’t die on the slopes and we can see about making that happen when we get back.” John sealed the deal by drumming the fingers of his hand on the table and shooting Sherlock a wink he could only describe as promising. 

\---

John was sure to get Sherlock’s number before they parted ways, making it seem like the easiest thing in the world. What was more, is that he did it so unobtrusively that Sherlock couldn’t tell if he wanted it for general purposes or if he wanted it because he was _interested_. “That way I don’t need to run into you to see you.”

Sherlock pursed his lips as his arms twitched and he glanced into the distance, over John’s right shoulder. “I abhor speaking on the phone; I prefer to text.”

“Good, so do I,” John responded as his thumbs hovered over the screen patiently, waiting for Sherlock’s digits. 

With a sigh, Sherlock gave his number and begged off, giving a stilted goodbye before hurrying away. He was halfway to the hotel before he realized foremost: that they' were going to the same place and he could have waited. Secondly, he never got John’s mobile number in return. That was rather rude, he supposed, but it would be far too awkward if he were to turn around and double back and _ask_ for it.

But John would text him and then he’d have it. John would _text_ him, and Sherlock would have John’s mobile number. He wouldn’t have to ask at all, would he?

Upon returning to his room, Sherlock tossed himself onto his bed, not bothering to turn on the light in the quickly darkening space; they’d lingered at the restaurant until the sun had begun to slip away. He felt positively alight, good deep down to his marrow, and he wanted to savor the sensation for as long as possible. 

He shimmed onto his side, toeing off his trainers in the process, and slung an arm up underneath his pillow. It took a while for his eyes to adjust to the room but when they did, he made out the odd outline of an object on the table by the bathroom; it wasn’t there before he’d gone, he was sure of it. So preoccupied with clinging to his fantastic mood, he hadn’t noticed it upon entering, an oversight that hadn’t happened to Sherlock in years. He noticed _everything_ , always. 

In a flash he darted off of the bed and turned on the lamp, revealing a mass of sickeningly yellow gerberas, and only yellow gerberas, no filler at all. Sherlock nearly had to shield his eyes for the violent color of it as he stepped forward and plucked the card off of the display. 

_Darling,_ it read. _So looking forward to seeing you on the slopes. Don’t forget, I owe you. XO, J.M._

With a certain amount of disdain, Sherlock flicked the card into the bin beneath the table, snatched up the hideous flowers and put them in the hallway where room service would, with any luck, dispose of them. Every last bit of delight drained from him, leaving him feeling like a hollow husk; Sherlock threw himself onto the bed, this time out of sheer rage.

He hadn’t seen James Moriarty in over two years. The last time the two had crossed paths, Moriarty had managed to medal in the World Cup finals in Austria. Though it had only been bronze, the media had taken to comparing Moriarty’s third place podium finish with Sherlock’s two-tenths of a second fourth place. It was the first wave of articles that suggested that Sherlock was washed up, that Moriarty - only two years his junior - was just reaching his peak in the sport.

It was preposterous. Moriarty was a perfectly fine skier, but his technique left much to be desired. It was simply puzzling how he managed to pull such fast times. The media and the skiing elite had marveled at him; he was someone who had started skiing relatively late in his teens, making his meteoric rise even more sensational.

And while everyone was busy being confounded by the marvel of James Moriarty, Sherlock was skeptical and suspicious. They’d trained at the same facilities on numerous occasions, never together, but at the same locale. Sherlock had watched his regime, had studied video of his runs, and there was something about it that seemed off. The way he balanced on his skis, even, didn’t seem right. 

For years Sherlock had had his suspicions that Moriarty was tampering with his skis; he wasn’t sure how, perhaps he’d altered the skis himself, a violation of World Cup rules. Unfortunately, if Sherlock were to make the claim against Moriarty and be incorrect about it, the backlash would be positively scathing. He’d seen it happen before and the skier had been laughed off of the circuit, falling out of the sport entirely. 

It was a risk he couldn’t afford. he needed _proof_ of it. The only way to get proof of the tampering was to get to Moriarty’s equipment, and that proved incredibly difficult. On the few times he’d even made an attempt, he’d been thwarted by Moriarty’s coach and right hand man, Sebastian Moran. Nothing had come of it, just vague threats from the hulking Swede regarding the state of Sherlock’s intact tibias. 

He could just imagine Moriarty right now, boasting about his accomplishments at whatever the trendiest establishment in Sochi was, gloating to anyone who would listen. The thought of it caused him to set his teeth, angrily grinding them together. It was only a matter of time before a reporter cornered him and asked him about Moriarty; it was only a matter of time before he let his tongue slip and told the world what he actually thought of the man.

The very last of Sherlock’s good mood evaporated and he tossed himself fitfully over onto his back, staring up at the blank, white ceiling. He was never outwardly riled by Moriarty, was rather proud of how composed he managed to be when they interacted at all; privately, Sherlock wanted to put his fist through a wall.

It dawned rather belatedly that this was likely the exact desired reaction that Moriarty was seeking; how foolish of Sherlock to succumb to his rage. Relaxing against the duvet he forced away the hot, violent anger and resolved to ignore the very obvious, very childish taunt. Lingering thoughts of retaliation swam through his mind; he couldn’t deny that he wished he could somehow visibly rile the man.

But then he could; on the mountain, of course. Sherlock could outski him, outperform him, show the skiing community and the world that they’d backed the wrong horse. There was a gleeful thrill at that, imagining himself besting Moriarty for gold. Pressing his hands together, he rested them on his lips and sank deeply into thought. 

Lestrade _had_ said he was skiing without reservation. He didn’t know rightly to what to attribute it, but it was undeniable that Sherlock was more _distracted_ than he’d ever been before a race. He was allowing himself to forego some of the work for a bit of social indulgence. Was that the key to his success? Had he been thinking about it too much all along?

Sherlock hummed aloud, physically moving his hands through the air and moving those thoughts aside. He moved on instead to his training for the morning, meting it out in his mind, down to the minute. When he was through organizing his thoughts it was still early in the evening. 

His back cracked as he stretched and he toyed with the idea of going for a swim. He needed something to tire him out for the evening; it wouldn’t do to go into tomorrow’s session on no sleep. Insomnia had plagued him for the better part of his adult years, and unless he was properly exhausted or took a sleeping pill, he was rarely able to doze off on his own. The swim would have to do, and just as he was about to lever himself up from the bed, his mobile gave a buzz.

He expected it to be Lestrade, falling into his old habit of asking him about his training plans for the morning, but was very pleased to discover it was from John. 

_Met your archenemy and that hulking trainer of his. Or is that a bodyguard? Thinks he’s rather terrifying which is actually pretty hilarious. Wankers, the both of em._ Sherlock giggled, giddy; he was glad that no one was around to hear the sound he’d made.

Falling back onto the pillow, he cradled the mobile to his sternum and allowed his eyes to close. He was startled out of his peace rather immediately as the phone buzzed against his chest.

 _Oh,_ the text read, _and now you have my number._


	7. Chapter 7

The call came early the next morning, just as Sherlock was shifting from his back to his side, deep asleep. He cracked one eye open with some difficulty and flung his arm out for his phone, peering down at the screen as though it had personally wronged him.

The annoyed groan he emitted was loud enough that it startled him even as it happened and he pressed his face down into the pillow while swiping the ‘accept call’ bar and bringing the phone as close to his mouth as he was able.

His voice was rough and raw; there was no veiling his irritation. “It’s five in the bloody morning Mycroft, what in the world could you _possibly_ want?”

The voice on the other end was paced and clear and decidedly mocking. Doing the math quickly, he realized it was rather late in London and could only imagine the level of importance of whatever information Mycroft wanted to relay. “And what a pleasure it is to hear _your_ voice, dear brother.”

Sherlock shoved his free hand underneath the pillow and punched the headboard in front of him three times in rapid succession. He didn’t abide Mycroft when he was wide awake, nevermind first thing in the morning; he could only speculate as to what utter nonsense he’d called about. “What do you _want_?”

“Oh, are we dispensing with the frivolities of asking after one another’s well being now? Spectacular, because I’m here glancing down at a tabloid newspaper, you see-”

“Boring.” He yawned, doing nothing to restrain the noise that emerged from his throat; Mycroft would hate that. 

Mycroft’s voice notched up in volume and intensity, something he only did when he was vehemently attempting to get his point across. “On the cover of which is a photograph of you and some doctor fellow out to dinner.”

Sherlock’s heart plummeted instantaneously and he pushed his head firmly into the pillow before beating his face into it twice. Just as he’d feared, a member of the media had caught them at it. At _what_ exactly Sherlock was still unsure, but they’re been caught at something. He could only imagine the rumors that were circulating. He wanted to remain aloof, uncaring of what the media said about him, but he was worried, anxiously so. While he couldn’t really afford the negative press at the moment, he was more concerned how John would react, and just what they would do to him. Would they dog him down, shove cameras in his face, air every last thing they knew about him to the public? 

Still, as far as Sherlock rightly knew, despite what he felt about John, it truly had been only lunch. It wasn’t as though they’d been caught sharing a candlelit meal over champagne. “It was lunch.”

“It was _stupid_ ,” Mycroft barked down the line and Sherlock pulled the receiver away from his ear at the offending volume. 

“And don’t call him ‘some doctor fellow,’ I know you’ve done your research on him, so come off it.” Sherlock struggled onto his back, dragging a hand down over his face as his vision acclimated to the darkness. “And he’s a medic for the ski team, it’s not completely out of the realm of possibility that he’d be out with a member _of the ski team_.”

Mycroft tutted audibly, notching Sherlock’s impatience and annoyance up even further. “This is dangerous, Sherlock.”

“We shared a meal together, that’s what people _do_ ; nothing untoward happened.” And in that moment Sherlock wasn’t exactly certain why he was explaining himself to Mycroft; true, Mycroft had the power to clear up some of this nonsense before it spread, but at what cost? Would Sherlock have to suffer through more of these insipid phone calls during which we was not only berated but lectured? He swallowed his ire and and sighed, resolving to try and make it through at least this cursory conversation before lashing out at him and severing what little good will Mycroft was extending. Who knew, he might need it in the future, and he did so love having his brother owe him something. 

“And were spotted out at a pub the evening previous? Are you _socializing_ now?”

Sherlock sipped a quick inhale and then another. “It was with Greg and Molly and… what if I were? Socializing?” Even to himself his voice sounded unsure, nearly bashful.

Mycroft emitted a long-suffering sigh. “You know how tedious people can be, Sherlock. You should be focusing on your training.”

Sherlock peeled himself out of bed, crossing the room until he was at the window, glancing out at the gently-cresting sunrise. “I’ve always focused on the training.”

“Yes.” His brother’s voice was encouraging but condescending, as though he were speaking to a child. Sherlock bit his lip, halting the caustic retort that sprung to the tip of his tongue. 

Instead, Sherlock settled his fingertips against the glass and tried, off-handedly, “Greg says he’s never seen me ski with such…”

“What?” He sounded intrigued now rather than admonishing and Sherlock felt his words freeze in his throat. He’d never really discussed his love of skiing with his brother; other than his brother constantly overseeing his training schedule and managing his press, Sherlock never brought up the sport in conversation with Mycroft at all. It almost felt like a weakness to romanticize the work, to admit that he found is more than enjoyable, that he found it _exhilarating_ and life affirming.

“He said it’s like I’m enjoying myself.” His forehead met the cool glass, his skin causing the window to fog around the point of contact. 

“ _Are_ you now? Well good, that’s good. I hope enjoying yourself will aid in your unseating Moriarty as champion.”

“Tell me, Mycroft,” Sherlock said, sparing one last glance at the scenery outside before sitting down on the bed. “Why were you always so _adamant_ about my training, hm? Mother and father were content to stand back and let me achieve at my own pace while you… you were always the one _pushing_. I’ve always wondered why.”

“You’re telling me you can’t deduce it?”

Sherlock was silent; he certainly didn’t want to cede that point.

“I want you to be the best because _you_ want to be the best, Sherlock.” He spelled it out carefully, seemingly unsure himself of his own words. 

“I- I don’t-”

Mycroft cut him off immediately, voice falling back into its normal tone. “Regardless, if Greg is providing you with adequate counsel and you wish to follow it-”

“Says the man who somehow found the time to hang around at most of my training sessions with him. Tell me, was that you looking out for me or was it something else entirely?” Sherlock baited, grinning even as he did, imaging Mycroft simmering wherever he was.

“Yes, well, back to the _intent_ of the call, do be careful Sherlock. This is your last Olympics after all; you can’t afford a scandal.”

“I suppose… you have a point.”

There was a long, pregnant silence and Sherlock glanced down at his phone to make sure the call was still connected. “I have a point,” Mycroft said flatly.

“He’s a friend Mycroft, he’s just a friend.” It wasn’t a lie, not at all, but it wasn’t the whole truth either and he felt odd describing John as _just_ a friend. 

“Just be _careful_.” Mycroft urged instead of demanded, and Sherlock was momentarily stunned into silence. “Sherlock?”

“Fine, yes, good.”

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Mother and father are… they’re coming to the city and we’re to watch the coverage together.”

Sherlock grinned. “That will be-”

“Horrifying, yes, positively abysmal.”

“Do enjoy that, brother. I need to get to the gym unless you’ve more patronizing to do?”

Mycroft sighed and Sherlock found himself smiling at the sound. “I’m through for the moment, but Sherlock, do mind your surroundings. There are cameras _everywhere_.”

“Well then, do svidaniya!” Sherlock said, and ended the call. 

He glanced over at his laptop, tempted to log on and see if he could find the photos to which Mycroft was referring, but it would be of no use. Instead he ran his hands through his hair and grabbed some workout clothing. It took him only a few moments to pack his bag but as soon as he was through, he headed down to the gym, resolving to figure out what to do about John over a nice, long sweat. 

\---  
Sherlock found the gym moderately populated, as early as it was. He recognized some faces and nodded to them in greeting, making his way through to the locker rooms and finding a cubby for his bag. He was in the middle of situating his kinesthesiology tape on his knees when a low, cat-call of a whistle resonated behind him.

He turned his head and was met with the grinning visage of James Moriarty. He was leaning casually against a row of lockers, body shining with sweat. Sherlock set his jaw, eyes darkening as he straightened and met Moriarty head on. 

He gestured down at Sherlock’s knees with a little flick of his wrist. “Oh dear, are we falling apart?” he sneered, mock gasping.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, lips pressed together into a tight line as he finished securing the bright teal tape down below his right patella. “I would ask if I could help you, Moriarty, but I’m rather sure that I can’t.”

“Oh Sherlock,” Moriarty said wistfully, pushing himself off of the wall, “there’s no need to be so _rude_! I was worried when I hadn’t seen you on the slopes and then I hear that you arrived with the _team_? And early, too. Worried, are you?”

Sherlock tugged at his shorts and stood, a false smile on his mouth as he looked down at his opponent. “Brilliant seeing you, ta!” He made a move to step around Moriarty but was halted when an arm shot out, blocking Sherlock’s path out to the main gym. 

“Enjoy the bouquet?”

“Your taste in flora leaves _much_ to be desired,” Sherlock hissed dangerously, leaning into Moriarty’s personal space. “Step aside.”

For his part, Moriarty did as asked, holding up his hands in surrender even as he grinned manically. “Don’t forget, I do owe you Sherlock. I _owe_ you.”

“So you keep saying,” Sherlock said darkly. “I would reconsider what you believe you have to do where I am concerned.”

“Oh you’re a peach, you think I find you _threatening_. Adorable, really you are, not as adorable as your pet, that John fellow, though,” he sneered and Sherlock did his best to rein in his anger and shift his face into a passive mask. “He is quite _something_ , isn’t he? Would hate for something to happen to _him_ , wouldn’t you?”

Sherlock momentarily considered outright lying, claiming that he barely knew John at all, but the tabloids would call his bluff for him. Besides, Sherlock was certain that Moriarty or one of his little henchmen had actually seen them together; there was no denying their association now. 

Instead, he allowed his head to loll back on his shoulders and he rolled his eyes. “ _So_ tedious; you are a rather boring man, aren’t you? Were you intending on keeping me here all day and _talking_ at me, or _may. I. Proceed."_

With a last, dangerous flash of his eyes, Moriarty spun away, whistling all the while, peeling off his sweaty shirt as he did so. Sherlock spared him one last, withering glance and then exited the locker room, hands curled into fists at his side.

Once he was in the main room, Sherlock pressed his back against the cinderblock wall and took a calming inhale. Of course Moriarty would taunt him, of course he would attempt to work him up. Sherlock had to center himself, find his resolve and move past it. Moriarty wasn’t worth any of his concern at the moment; he’d deal with that obstacle when he didn’t have a hefty workout to complete. 

He rolled his head on his shoulders, huffed out the last of his irritation, slung his towel around his neck and made his way to the elliptical, notching the incline up and settled in, leaning over the machine and allowing the mechanical swishing noise to wash over him and drown out his thoughts. Sherlock focused forward at a television that was covering snowboarding preliminaries, and worked himself until his legs protested; glancing down at the readings, he was happy to note that he’d gone five miles without even realizing it. Sometimes, he found his workouts tedious in their repetitive nature, but being able to zone out was helpful. 

He stepped off, legs feeling a bit rubbery, and moved to the free weights, the metallic clacking and clinking of the barbells ringing through the large space. Sherlock found a spotter and lay down on the bench, grinding out rep after rep to the casual encouragements of the man behind him. His eyes focused on the ceiling and the spectre of Moriarty floated through his mind; he ousted it with a grunt and a shove of the bars upward. 

“Sure you’re not going too hard?” his spotter asked, fingertips lingering just beneath the bar as Sherlock held the weights aloft.

He huffed, setting the bar back onto the holding rack and grit his teeth. “Another,” he demanded and after stretching out his arms, went for another set. If Greg had still been coaching him, he wouldn’t have questioned Sherlock’s intensity, would have simply stood and spotted him, made off-hand comments that would fuel Sherlock’s resolve. If Sherlock were being honest with himself, that was one of the things that he missed the most, Greg’s constant goading. The man knew how to get Sherlock in the proper headspace without Sherlock even realizing it and didn’t take any flack from him, forcing him through rounds and rounds of leg lifts until he was sure that Sherlock had gotten all he could from his muscles. 

Sweat rolled over his temples and the hollow of his back; he felt it soak through the front of his shirt. It felt _fantastic_ , his body responding to the rigors he was putting it through. 

Sherlock had only just set the tricep machine at it’s proper resistance when his attention was stolen away. He saw him from across the room, could place him just from the back of his head; for a moment, Sherlock admired the way his hair grew to a little point on the nape of his neck, before tearing his eyes away. He was in the middle of a workout, damn it. He needed to _focus_.

Sherlock hunkered down, setting his gaze resolutely at a point on the wall, and started another set of reps, pressing down and back against the resistance, working his triceps. 

John spotted him a few moments later, and Sherlock swore he didn’t imagine the brightening of his face as he made his way over. He was adorned in a tight black drifit shirt, one that clung to his torso in all the right ways, and Sherlock swallowed against the sudden flood of attraction that coursed through him. John’s shorts lingered just at his knees, his trainers bright and neon against the drab darkness of his clothing. Sherlock could just make out the saturation of his sweat beneath his arms and around his neck and he felt an urge, deep and primal, to sink his nose there and take in his scent.

Christ, this was out of control. 

He weaved his way through the machines, sidestepping athletes, and made his way to Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t stop in his workout, just flicked his eyes over towards John in a way that he hoped read as indifferent.

“Today is arms day?” John opened, leaning an elbow on the cool metal of the equipment.

Sherlock merely grunted, gritting his teeth and pressing down and back. It was two more presses before Sherlock tipped his head in John’s direction, just slightly. “Are you intentionally going out of your way to run into me?” he asked, pressing down on the tricep machine with effort. 

“Well,” John blushed, pushing his towel further up onto his shoulder. “If I were?”

“Then you’re rather transparent,” he said, going for another rep. 

John’s smile faded until it had slipped from his face completely and Sherlock did his best to continue on with his workout without being fazed. “Right, I… right.” John licked his lips and shrugged. “Sorry to interrupt your workout.”

Sherlock exhaled harshly through his nose and settled the weights on the rack, fingers still curled around the handles. John turned and began walking away and Sherlock couldn’t stomach it, couldn’t _bear_ it. But this is what he’d intended, wasn’t it? To put John off and spare him the spectacle of getting caught up in Sherlock’s life? Keep him from being smeared in the press, from becoming the media’s pawn? 

Pressing his tongue into his front teeth in consternation, he reconsidered. John was a smart man, a strong man, a man of very obvious reserve. He could trust John to make that decision for himself, couldn’t he? Or, Sherlock wondered, was he just being selfish in hoping that John realized the obstacles to being Sherlock’s friend and simply chose not to allow that to stop him?

John deserved - at the very least - for Sherlock to be honest with him. “John! John, wait.”

John paused, turned and stood, a few scant feet between them; he said nothing, just gazed at Sherlock expectantly.

“My brother he... there’s a photograph in a tabloid, the two of us…”

John’s eyes lit with recognition and his head hung for a moment before he propped it back up. “Ah, the rumors?”

“Yes, and I…”

“I thought you weren’t really concerned about that?” John sounded curious and unsure, but he still took a little step back in Sherlock’s direction. 

“I am and I’m… I’m not. But you, you’re being dragged into a rather precarious situation, and I wouldn’t want-”

“The rumors, Sherlock,” John stepped up, flush to the machine, the cacophony of the gym shielding their conversation. “Are they true?”

“I don’t know what-” Sherlock lashed out, startled by the invasiveness of the question, startled that John was being so aggressive. He wasn’t put off by it, he simply didn’t have the time to reason out a proper response. And why was John asking? Did he hope the rumors were true or did he hope for the opposite? 

“Because the thing is… I like you. I think I… no, I _like_ you and I want to get to know you better, okay? If you’re doing this because you think that it will reflect poorly on me or put me out there in a way I’m not comfortable with, don’t. I understand if you don’t want a scandal, I do, but if you’re worried about me, don’t.” Sherlocked wondered if John was aware that he was standing up to his full height, chest expanding.

Settling his tongue against his upper lip, Sherlock withheld the grin that was battling to make its way onto his face. He bent and scooped up his water bottle and took a long draw, eyes focused on the mirrors on the far end of the long room. He took another swallow, settled the sudden nerves that had cropped up. “You,” he shifted his gaze to meet John’s, “you like me.” It was said rather plainly, and wasn’t a question, but it _was_ skeptical.

“I do,” John confirmed, quiet but sure. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“You’ve only known me a few days.”

“Then let me get to know you a few more so I can make a proper assessment, yeah?” Sherlock was silent, looking up at John in wonder. “Unless, hey, I get it if all this interferes with your training. I know you’re quite intense about that, and if it would be better I can certainly…”

“Certainly what?”

“Make myself scarce,” John finished with a little shrug.

Sherlock sighed and wiped at his face with a towel. “No, that won’t be necessary.”

John smiled, al little thing at first but when Sherlock tipped his head to mirror John’s smile, his mouth broke into a grin. “Well, alright then. I will… see you around?”

His bottom lip trapped between his teeth, Sherlock panicked, trying to think of something to keep John close, to see him sooner, rather than later. “Or, perhaps, you might join me for dinner?” The words were out of his mouth before he considered how they might be received.

John’s face changed, excitement warring with the need to be reserved. “I wouldn’t want to get you into any more trouble than I already have.”

“My room then, I’ll… room service, if that will suit? Say, eight?” His heart thudded hard in his chest, he swore it rattled his ribcage as he waited for John’s response.

“That will suit just fine,” John confirmed. “See you tonight then.”

He turned with a wink and sauntered off back towards the locker rooms and Sherlock released a huge gust of air he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

\---

Sherlock had no idea what to wear or what to order or what to expect. He didn’t panic but he did overestimate how much food they could eat, and placed a room service order for an exorbitant amount of money; fruits and steamed vegetables and Russian delicacies and menu items he couldn’t pronounce. He couldn’t decide on a dessert so had urged the man in the kitchen to bring up whatever he thought was good and ended the call. 

He took his time in the shower and in putting himself together; he spent long minutes with the blow dryer, sliding his fingers through his hair, getting the curls to settle _just so_. He primped and primed, toggling between an aubergine colored oxford and a deep blue, changing between the two twice before he settled on the dark purple one. It was then another few minutes before he decided how many buttons to leave open, one or two. 

After settling on one button, Sherlock tidied the sitting room of his suite and then puttered around, his excess energy making it impossible for him to sit down. It was nearing eight and Sherlock took the opportunity to take one last look at himself in the mirror. He looked… good, if he did say so himself. His skin shone in contrast to his hair and the dark clothing he wore; he just hoped John would agree.

Sherlock stood in the center of the sitting room, looking out the large window. Lights sparkled in the courtyard and in the distance and the far-off voices of revelry resounded, muffled through the glass.

The crisp knock at the door startled Sherlock out of his stasis and he checked his watch; eight on the dot. Pressing his palms down against the front of his trousers, he took a deep breath, released it, and opened the door. 

John stood in front of him in a checked shirt and dark jeans, hair artfully tousled. He looked… delightful. Sherlock smile at him. “Good evening.”

“Evening,” he replied pleasantly, and held out the bottle of wine to him with one hand, “thought it would be appropriate.”

“I, uhm, thank you,” Sherlock managed, stepping back so that John could enter the room and when he did, and the door was closed, he turned to face John with a little flourish. “The food should be here quite soon.”

John grinned, hands clasped behind his back, and meandered around the spacious sitting room, crossing to glance out the window. “Oh you ordered for me, how presumptuous,” John mentioned and turned to grin at Sherlock.

“Yes, well, I-”

“I’m sure it’s fine. It’s all fine,” John said softly and turned back to the window. “Wonderful view.”

Sherlock took a few steps towards him. “It is what it is. I hadn’t the faintest what the room was like when I booked it; I didn’t intend to spend much time here.”

They gazed out the window a moment longer before John turned, thumbs hooked into the pockets of his trousers. “Still, nice room.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I suppose.”

They were left gazing at each other in the center of the sitting room, John smiling easily and Sherlock’s heart knocking about so viciously in his chest that he was certain it could be heard beating against his ribs. Sherlock was aware that he ought to say something, that as the seconds ticked by, the moment became more intimate and Sherlock was fast blanking on how to proceed.

Luckily, a knock sounded at the door, snapping through the sweet tension, and Sherlock hastily made his way to the door, accepting their dinner. It took him a moment, but he wheeled the food-laden cart next to the coffee table and stood back, assessing the bounty.

“Christ,” John laughed, “did you order the whole menu?”

“I wasn’t certain what you were in the mood for so… essentially…”

John lifted a single brow in Sherlock’s direction.

“Yes,” Sherlock smiled and leaned over to begin placing some of the dishes on the table. 

As they ate, the conversation flowed easily. Sherlock spoke of his lengthy association with Greg and John explained how he’d come to accept the job as a medic on the ski team. It was over dessert - tiramisu that wasn’t fantastic but wasn’t terrible - that Sherlock leaned back against the arm of the sofa. “Tell me about biathlon.”

John blinked, sucking a bit of cream off of the side of his pinky. ”Thought you said it was barbaric.”

Sherlock felt a warmth pool in his stomach; John had remembered exactly what he said. “Indeed,” Sherlock pressed, “tell me about it.”

“Well, used to ski with my gramps, spent almost every holiday up north. He lived in Norway and that’s just what they did; he’d ski and he’d hunt. I was too short to really break onto the scene competitively but, well, it was a good workout, and I enjoyed it. And I was fairly good at it.”

“Biathlete turned doctor turned soldier turned ski team medic,” Sherlock mused, draining the dregs from his wine glass. “Quite the CV.”

“I mean, army _medic_ but I suppose yes, when you say it like that, it is rather a strange resume,” John chuckled and finished off his own glass, taking it upon himself to measure them out each a refill. “And with that, I need to use the loo.”

Sherlock watched him go, smiling serenely as he did. He felt warm and relaxed and _spectacular_ , something he owed to John as much as to the two glasses of wine he’d finished. He was having a lovely time, having _fun_ even, and he wasn’t content for the evening to end now, even though he hadn’t the faintest how to go about prolonging John’s presence in his room.

Sherlock stood and cleared their plates and loaded the little cart back up, wheeling it through the door to the hallway. When he turned to go back inside and had shut the door, Sherlock found John standing very close to him, nearly toe to toe. His brain went offline for a moment before clicking back on. His heart rate and breathing sped up and he could feel sweat beading at his hairline. “Are you-”

John swallowed and glanced down at his shoes momentarily. “You never answered me,” he whispered slowly, maneuvering so that they were chest to chest, only a sliver of space between them. Sherlock could smell the tiramisu on John’s breath, could feel the heat radiating off of his body and wanted to press _in_ and _on_ and never stop.

“Answered…” Sherlock shivered, breathless, “what?”

John licked his lips and Sherlock’s eyes openly followed the trail of his tongue. “The rumors. Are they… true?”

“Why?”

“Well, because I really want to kiss you, but I don’t want to overstep my bounds.” John’s hands went to Sherlock’s hips and he stretched up on his tiptoes to nudge at Sherlock’s nose with his own; he went no further, just nuzzled against Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock shivered again, reaching blindly for John’s hip; his eyes slipped closed and his head swam pleasantly. “You wouldn’t be… overstepping.”

John leaned in, smiled against Sherlock’s lips. “Good then, very good,” he said, and then he licked into Sherlock’s mouth, sure and hot and _right_ and Sherlock succumbed to it, feeling as though he was flying down a mountain at eighty miles an hour when John slid his hands into Sherlock’s hair. 

John pressed him back into the wall, confident but gentle as their tongues slicked together and retreated. It was a slow kiss, something that stretched the bounds of time, all warm and sweet and deep. Sherlock sucked in a breath through his nose and gave in totally as John moved his mouth from lips to jaw to neck and back up again. 

If Sherlock was unsure if John could hear his heart racing before, he was absolutely certain of it now; he could hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel every single one of his pores as his skin pricked with goosebumps and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist to keep him close, keep him _against_.

The kiss slowed and petered out naturally, John peppering three kisses to Sherlock’s chin before leaning back and opening his eyes. Sherlock gazed down at him, pupils blown wide with arousal, and smiled. 

He swallowed thickly, allowing his body to acclimate to the sensations flooding through him until he found the ability to speak. His voice was low and just a touch shaky, but he managed. “I didn’t expect…”

“Hmmm,” John hummed, taking a step back though his fingers lingered on Sherlock’s hips. His cheeks were flushed and his lips were reddened and Sherlock was fairly certain he’d never had his breath stolen until that very moment. “Expect what?”  
Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall and his eyes to slip closed. Even as he shook his head slowly, he couldn’t wrap his brain around it; he grinned and curled his fingers slightly into John’s biceps. 

“You,” he answered softly. “I didn’t expect you.”


	8. Chapter 8

Their snogging ebbed in intensity, comfortably shifting from passionate and intent to lazy and lingering.

They made it on wobbly legs to the sofa and Sherlock stretched out, one foot on the floor for leverage as John sat in the space between his legs, hands at hips and pectorals and biceps. Their lips met and slid and pressed and parted to leave room for hasty and delighted breaths. John was laid on Sherlock’s chest and seemed content to be there, propped up by an elbow as they exchanged their kisses easily.

Two buttons on Sherlock’s shirt had been undone but John had made no move to go any further. Sherlock was grateful for this; this seemed like something he should take his time with and tend to. As much as his obvious arousal made his desire plain, he wanted to do this thing with him and John _properly_.

He’d never done this with anyone before, not this careful, sweet, lingering intimacy. Sherlock Holmes had kissed before and he’d fucked before but he’d never relaxed and enjoyed, gave and took, without it being means to an end. 

It seemed that John might have had a similar idea in mind, allowing his hands only to wander as far as Sherlock’s waist, leaning on him fully but lightly. Sherlock’s hands roamed casually over John’s back, never deigning to slip beneath the fabric of his jumper. It was nice like this, the thrumming emotions somehow muted by the lethargy at which they moved; Sherlock was content to kiss behind John’s ear for some time, just lingering until John sighed happily and peeled himself back to sit up.

“I have to say,” John mentioned, as he reached for what was left in his wine glass, draining it in two long swallows. “I didn’t expect you, either.”

Sherlock’s eyes were lidded, he felt his cheeks heat with a flush and he looked at John as a sated smile spread across his lips. “I’m quite the surprise.”

“Mmm, yes.”

Their gazes held and John’s smile faded until he was just looking upon Sherlock, openly and fondly, his thumb stroking over the back of Sherlock’s knuckles slowly. “I should get going.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed reluctantly. “We both have early mornings.”

“How’d you know I-” John began but grinned, cutting himself off. He blushed and ran a hand through his hair, glancing up at Sherlock from under his lashes. “Never mind, you’re brilliant.”

John ran his hands over his face and stood, swiping his palms against his thighs as he did so. Sherlock levered himself up into a sitting position and assessed the state of the sitting room, wondering if he could simply be lazy and allow the maid service to tidy it all up. 

John cleared his throat and Sherlock’s gaze drifted up to meet his, lethargic. “Tonight was…”

“Nice?” Sherlock carefully supplied; it had been nice, it had been _more_ than nice, really, but Sherlock didn’t want to press his luck.

John considered, licking his lips, lips that had just been on Sherlock’s. And even though he knew what they felt like, what they tasted like, Sherlock’s eyes followed that tongue and gazed at that mouth. “No, no, it was… I haven’t done that in a long time. It was lovely.”

Biting at his own bottom lip, Sherlock heaved in a large breath, gearing up for what he was about to say. “John you should know… I don’t do… this.”

“Well,” John chuckled silently, “you’d never know.”

Sherlock was quiet, stunned, and John just continued to grin at him. “Oh, I, uh-”

John shook his head, grin tempering to something less that was still an elated curve of lips.“Look, can I help you tidy all of this up or...?”

“No, no, I can handle it. As you’ve said, we both have rather early calls tomorrow morning.”

“Prelims for you, tomorrow, yeah?” John asked, tugging at his clothing to right himself; Sherlock had managed to muss him considerably without even sneaking a hand beneath. 

Sherlock stood and stretched, his back and knees creaking from being in such an awkward position for so long. He twisted his torso on his hips. “Indeed, the final day to qualify.”

John nodded, slid his hands into his pockets and settled his gaze on his shoes. There was a brief moment when they said nothing - but rather than feeling tense or awkward, Sherlock felt relaxed and unhurried. He hadn’t felt such a peace of mind around another person in a very, very long time. It continued to amaze him. _John_ continued to amaze him.

“Right well, I’ll be there. I mean, I’ll be on hand to- if anyone needs attention… you know what I-”

“That’s not what you meant,” Sherlock murmured, stepping up into John’s personal space, thrilled that he was allowed to be so bold.

“Yeah, alright,” he returned, equally as soft, slipping his hands back out from his pockets to place them gently over Sherlock’s pectorals. “I’ll be there.”

Sherlock dipped his head suddenly, seeking out John’s lips and John obliged, their mouths slotting together just as eagerly as they had before. Sherlock didn’t step forward to urge the moment further and John stood his ground, hands still warm, covering Sherlock’s chest. It faded, Sherlock nipping one last time at John’s lower lip before pulling back to grin down at him. “Thank you for coming by this evening.”

“Thank you for inviting me.” John took a step back, inching his way towards the door. It was something to behold, and Sherlock’s chest seized up with affection; John didn’t want to leave him, just as much as Sherlock desperately wished he could stay. Now wasn’t the time, however, and if they played their cards right, they’d have much, much more time together once the Games were through.

Sherlock followed, a few paces behind. “Any time.”

“Oh really?” he asked, jokingly and turned back to glance at Sherlock, who was just a pace behind him now.

“Yes,” Sherlock said simply, tone and facial expression serious, and he delighted in watching as John swallowed thickly at the invitation he’d been given. 

“Erm, I’ll see you tomorrow?” John asked once he was at the door, hand on the knob. Sherlock gave him a short nod and John opened the door to exit. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight John,” he replied softly, one hand pressed against the wall as the door drifted shut, keeping his eyes on John all the while. 

It was just ajar when he heard, “Oh and Sherlock,”

Sherlock caught the edge with the crook of his index finger just in time, “Hm?”

The grin that spread across John’s face was as much prideful as it was predatory. “Kick arse tomorrow, yeah?”

\---

The sun was bright and high in the sky by the time Sherlock had made his way up the mountain with his people in tow. It was unseasonably warm again, and the bright light made the melting snow shine brilliantly, stinging his eyes even behind the veil of his sunglasses. 

Gravel and snow crunched beneath his boots, the sound familiar and pleasant, and Sherlock hitched his bag higher up on his shoulder as he walked beside his ski team towards the prep area. 

The top of the mountain was swarming with people and the skiers had been urged not to make their way up to the starting area until the prior group had finished on the course. The earliest part of the morning had seen the weaker skiers racing the course for their qualifying times, and by the time Sherlock’s group had been allowed up the snow was severely carved up, patches of brown showing through in some areas. 

The frown he wore was the same he saw on the faces of his fellow competitors. No matter how intense the course was, melting snow was never a good sign, and Sherlock wondered briefly if he should worry about the extra speed the moisture would induce. He shook it off, knowing his experts would account for that, his team rounding on a bench and settling down on it, unzipping the equipment bags.

Sherlock’s eyes scanned the crowd of competitors, noting that the Norwegians were a man down and that the Swiss delegation had yet to arrive. The idea of Moriarty pricked the back of his mind, begging him to take note, but he shoved it away, slipping his fingers around the fastenings on his boots, going through his pre-ski checks as he always had. 

Phillip had unsheathed the skis, settling them on the ski vice so that Molly could prep them and smooth them over with wax. Some skiers preferred to see to this on their own, but Sherlock trusted Molly, had for some time. She had her face down close to the surface and was pressing a shiny cloth from the tip to the end of the ski before pulling back. “Does anyone have my red stick? Not the pink one but the-”

It was shoved into her hand and she took it without thanks, firmly in the zone. She took the iron to the wax and set the base layer, scraping it off when she was happy with the coverage, taking with it any impurities and dirt that had been on the surface. By the time she was through there was a sheen of sweat on her brow and Sherlock watched on, nearly transfixed by her fluidity.

“The high flouro please,” she whispered down to the ski itself, reaching out blindly until the milky white block was placed in her hand. She ducked down once more, moving smoothly and methodically until she was satisfied with the job she had done.

“Why do you even carry anything but the high stuff around him,” Philip asked, but she ignored him, intent on the task at him.

While watching, Sherlock had managed to don his Lycra, eyes never leaving Molly’s hands as they lovingly stroked the fiberglass, working it to perfection. “Take a look,” she asked when she pulled back, cheeks flushed and grin bright. “I took Phillip’s advice, these don’t need much in the way of a heavy wax so I tried something new.”

The tips of Sherlock’s fingers hovered over the glossy surface as he stooped to inspect Molly’s handiwork. They looked perfect to his eye, but it was how they reacted when they hit the snow that mattered. If the run went well, Molly would know to prepare his equipment just as she had today. “Well done,” he said, eyes still on the skis and loathe to pull away.

“They’re gorgeous, aren’t they?” Molly whispered, rounding the vice to stand next to him. “Can’t tear your eyes away.”

“They’re inanimate objects,” Sherlock managed tonelessly, but still, couldn’t stop looking at them. 

Molly chuckled beside him, “They’re an extension of you, they do what you make them do; hardly inanimate.”

“Molly,” he said, finally managing to tear himself away, “shut up.”

She grinned, crossing her arms over her chest, and took a step back. “Right, go get ‘em, boss.”

Phillip stood off to the side while the others set about getting Sherlock’s poles, gloves and goggles fitted properly. He wouldn’t put the skis on until the very last moment, lest he undo any of Molly’s hard work. 

Together, they made their way to the starting hut, in which were gathered the first six skiers of his qualifying round. None of them spoke to each other, instead conferring with their trainers and coaches in hushed tones; Sherlock and his company were silent.

It wasn’t until the official had entered to tell them shortly that it would be another five minutes before they were prepared to start that Moriarty and his company barged into the space. It had been quiet before, but the volume reduced even further as he entered, the hulking figure of Sebastian Moran pulling up the rear with the man’s skis. 

The group paused, just off to the center of the room as Moriarty glanced stoically around, and then out of nowhere broke into a grin and threw up his hands. “Well, don’t all go welcoming me at once.”

The Norwegian team laughed while the rest of the hut tittered with nervous giggles; Sherlock remained silent and indifferent, sniffing and glancing out at the course and the flurry of activity that was taking place inside of the officials’ tent. It was only when Moriarty paced right up into Sherlock’s personal space that the rest of the inhabitants of the hut felt free enough to take up their conversations again.

Sherlock turned and met his gaze head on, looked down his nose at the shorter man, who was so close that if Sherlock had bent just a fraction, his nose would have rested against Moriarty’s. They stared at one another, neither speaking, neither moving, as they tried to suss each other out. Sherlock’s eyes were cold and hard, but Moriarty’s held a glint, something maniacal and dark that made Sherlock wonder.

“Tell me,” Moriarty said eventually, enthusiastically, “how was _dinner_?”

Sherlock felt himself seize up, could feel his nostrils flaring even though he did his best to remain unaffected. How did Moriarty know about dinner with John and what did he plan on doing with the information? His mind ran through the possibilities and there were many. He could have had someone spying on Sherlock’s hotel room in the flesh - likely that hulking oaf of an assistant - or had someone stationed far away with a long-range lens. There was security footage of the hotel and the hallway of course and the lobby’s personnel was lax, so there was no ruling out he’d seen John arriving and leaving. 

It could have been any number of things, but the how didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that Moriarty _knew_ and he was obviously intending on using that knowledge against Sherlock. 

_God_ , Sherlock had been careless and stupid, and Mycroft’s voice flitted through his mind, chastising him.

“Hmm,” Moriarty pressed, finally taking a step back from Sherlock. “You ordered rather a lot of food for one person. Or wait, was it-”

Sherlock felt his rage boiling, ready to spill over; his hands shook with the force of it.

“There a problem here?” And suddenly Greg Lestrade was between Sherlock and Moriarty, chest puffed out, hands on his hips, a threat.

“Oh,” Moriarty cried, high-pitched and mocking, holding his hands up in a defensive posture. “Is this your protector Sherlock? Brought him along because you were afraid of something? Of me?” The hut had once again gone silent, Moriarty spinning around, palms up in the center of the large space. “You’re both so adorable. Sherlock, you have _so many_ little pets, how _do_ you keep them all straight?”

“Christ, how old are you Moriarty?” Lestrade scoffed, rolling his eyes and turning back to Sherlock. “Think you have more pressing matters to worry about at the moment so why don’t you get your sodding skis on and shut your mouth?” 

There was a tense moment when a fissure of something dangerous ran through Moriarty’s gaze and no one moved. Sherlock stared him down and he stared back, a silent promise made in the gaze. “Don’t forget,” he said, batting his eyelashes. “I owe you.” Moriarty then gave a ridiculous bow and then spun on heel back to his minions, leaving Lestrade to shake his head and turn to face Sherlock. 

The murmurs from the other teams cut through the tension, and after a moment everyone was going back to what they were doing, the scene having played out. Sherlock sniffed again and set his gaze back out the window, onto the snow. “I can take care of myself,” Sherlock growled quietly. 

Greg smiled widely, shrugging. “Oh, I know that, but that prick pisses me off; got one of his men to try and take Molls home last night.”

“Molls is it now?” Sherlock scoffed and crossed his arms haughtily over his chest, glaring at Lestrade. “What are you doing here anyway? You’re not my coach.”

“Naw, but I thought I’d wish you luck; ‘sides, the air’s better up here, innit?” He reached out to tap Molly on the shoulder and then spun back to face Sherlock, snickering to himself silently; she came up behind him and thwacked him right in the center of his back, hard.

“It’s race day,” she admonished. “Quit it.” But even she was grinning and Sherlock was torn between being annoyed that they had found something together and secretly pleased that they were both so happy. Either way, at the moment there were too many distractions buzzing through Sherlock’s head, the exact sort of mindset he didn’t want to be in before a qualifying run. Again, Moriarty had known that his presence would rile him up and set out to do just that. It’s was childish and stupid and Sherlock really shouldn’t have let the man get to him.

Sherlock turned away from the crowd and squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his teeth together hard, seeing bursts of bright red behind his eyelids; he felt off-kilter and slightly shaken, and he curled his hands into fists lest they begin to tremble with nerves.

“Anyway,” Lestrade continued, perky. “Don’t let him get to you.”

“He’s not,” Sherlock said, gravely serious, but Greg just tipped his head and gazed at him for a long moment.

“He is, what’d he say to you?”

Sherlock swallowed and turned back around, sliding his face into a careful, casual mask.“You heard, about the… the tabloid piece featuring John and myself?”

Lestrade nodded, slowly, stepping even closer to Sherlock so he could hear him as his voice dropped, tipping into the realm of secrecy. “I think he’s the one that leaked it. And last night John-”

Lestrade cut him off with a painful groan, “Tell me you didn’t _you know_ before a race because-”

Sherlock’s eyeroll was something to behold. “Greg, you’re a grown man, you _can_ say intercourse.”

“But you didn’t, because race day is-” Sherlock managed to cut him off with a severe scowl and Lestrade’s mouth snapped shut almost comically. “Right, go on.”

It was at that moment that the announcer called for the first skier to prepare to get to the gate, and the Norwegians, first and second on the list, began strapping their skies on. Sherlock watched for a moment, feeling a slight flurry of nerves pass through his stomach before turning his attention back to Lestrade. “We had dinner last night, that was… just dinner.”

“So?” Lestrade pressed, glancing around at the other athletes who were beginning to prepare.  
“In my room,” Sherlock said with a grave finality. 

“Oh,” Lestrade said once, and then, “ _oh_.”

“Yes.”

“Sherlock, damn, are you and he- I mean, are you and John…” Swiping a hand over his face, he secured the other at the swell of his hip and locked his gaze on a point just beyond Sherlock’s right shoulder. “Is this a thing?”

“It has the distinct possibility of being what you might consider to be a ‘thing’, yes.”

“Right, right,” Lestrade passed a hand over his mouth. “Okay, well, let’s just try not to think about that now, wait until you’ve… until you’ve…” Lestrade caught Sherlock’s gaze briefly. “Really? With John?”

Again, he rolled his eyes. “Is it really so hard to believe?”

“A bit,” the man conceded, but then grinned and clapped a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But it’s brilliant. Congrats, mate. I’m going to grab the tram back down so I’ll… I’ll see you at the finish.”

“You’re no longer my coach,” Sherlock drawled, testily.

“Yeah,” Greg admitted, over his shoulder. “But if there’s no one to hug you at the finish line you’re going to look like a bit of an arsehole. Doing you a favor, mate.”

Sherlock shrugged him off, uncomfortable with the camaraderie, and barked at Phillip to bring his skis over. He was on deck for the event, and his people immediately surrounded him, fastening and refastening his boots and getting him into his skis. His helmet came down snugly over his head, the sounds of the hut nothing but muffled white noise. 

His team faded to the back; they knew not to try and speak with him after he was in his gear. Sherlock brought his gloved hands to the temples of his helmet and took a moment to fall back and away, into his mind. He visualized the mountain, could feel himself prepared and poised at the starting gate. It took him less than three seconds to run the course in his head and he did it again and again until an official called over the PA to inform him that he was due at the gate. 

He didn’t glance back at his team or at any of the other skiers, his attention focused ahead, primed. He slid easily out of the hut. The air whipped him in the face; up there it was easily fifteen degrees colder than it was at the base of the mountain and the frigid temperature helped knock the last of the uncomfortable nerves from Sherlock’s stomach. 

He maneuvered up to the starting line and readjusted his poles. Though he’d already qualified for the finals with his first training run, he knew he needed to shave a few tenths of a second off of his time to get better placement. 

Fingers tightening on the poles, he hunkered down, mind blissfully blank as he got as close to the gate pole as possible. There was one beep, then two, and then Sherlock exploded out of the gate. His legs felt as though they were on autopilot the second they hit the snow, shifting and conforming to the twist of Sherlock’s hips. 

The sun glinted off of his goggles as he thrust himself around the first few curves, wind attempting to gust through his Lycra; he felt it in a distant, detached sort of way. His poles dug into the snow, giving him extra propulsion as the course narrowed inward and he hit the first set of turns with finesse. 

The blue slope markers blurred as he he cut left, getting a good jump on the gate, thwacking it with his pole as he immediately cut right and hit the next gate as well, coming off the tight curve with power and speed. There was a moment when he wobbled, tipping just outside of the blue markings in the snow, but he got it back, just as he propelled himself into another deadly sharp right turn. 

He was on the fine edge of his skis, entering into the bear jump with more control that he had the previous time, but he eased up on his tuck position, not wanting to tire out his legs too much for the actual race. Sherlock committed to memory which turns he was taking where, making sure his line was tight and flawless. If he skied this line well he knew he could ski it just the same when it came time for the medal race.

Sherlock had no issue with the final few turns on the course, skiing them clean and picking up even more speed as it came to the fine jump. He flew through the air, nothing but blissful, clean white below him and the crowd in the stands beyond. He barely saw any of it though, as his skis once again made contact with the earth in a jolt. 

He crossed the finish line, swerving to a stop, even as he held up his hands. His heart was hammering in his ears; he felt positively on fire. Sherlock knew he’d done much better than his other run; it had been much smoother and it had _felt_ better. His official time of two minutes, 6.09 seconds startled him, however; to his knowledge, it was the fastest time that anyone had clocked on the training runs thus far.

The crowd responded boisterously, everyone in the stands on their feet.

Sherlock smiled, plucking his goggles off and resting them atop his helmet as he stood in front of the media podium as was standard. He managed a genuine smile and waved at the cameras that were shoved in his face, huffing out tired breaths as he looked up to the board where the numbers remained, bright red and clear. He’d skied even better than he’d hoped he would. 

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Greg rushing towards the barrier, arms open and eyes issuing a challenge. Sherlock grinned and threw an arm around his shoulders, tugging him into a strong hug. 

Behind Greg, John stood with the rest of the ski medics who were celebrating audibly. John spared him a glance and in the space of a _second_ was able to communicate his pride and happiness; Sherlock felt something delicate burst open inside of him and as a result, he gripped Lestrade harder to his chest.

“Oi mate, before you crack a rib!” he laughed and pulled back out of the hug to slap gently at Sherlock’s face in his glee.

Sherlock kept his eyes on John, who hadn’t stopped grinning and who gave Sherlock a quick, hidden thumbs up before smacking the other medical professionals on the back as though the victory were his own.

Sherlock knew that in part, he _did_ owe his fantastic performance to John Watson and Sherlock couldn’t wait to suss out just _why_.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock could only describe the feeling welling inside his chest as elation; it tingled from the base of his skull right down to the tips of his toes and zinged back up, lingering to expand in his chest. It was a struggle to contain his glee as he made the obligatory rounds amongst the press, granting nearly every sports outlet quick little interviews. 

It was bizarre, being quite so overcome with emotion, but he managed it with grace, taking a deep breath before greeting each new interviewer.

“Sherlock, such an accomplishment after a trying year. At your age, how did you prepare for this course?”

He grinned at the camera - it felt odd, but good - and then down at the snow at his feet. “I always feel as though I’m capable of a medal, though I can’t enter a race envisioning that; I attack the course with everything I have and focus on each aspect of the run as an individual segment-”

The woman interrupted him, pulling the microphone back to her lips; it picked at him, irritation flaring a bit. “It’s been said, or you’ve said in the past that you commit the course to memory, is that something that most skiers do?”

He licked his lips, set his jaw and glanced up at her, his gaze steady and intense. “I don’t believe so. Or, rather, watch their performances and you tell _me_ if you believe they can recall the mountain with such clarity. I’m sure other athletes prepare and race in their _own_ , specialized way, as anyone would with their own event. No one prepares like I do. No one _skis_ like I do.”

“Are you saying your approach is better than others’?” the reporter asked, shoving the microphone right into Sherlock’s face, nearly hitting him in the mouth. It was a question he’d been asked before numerous times and at Lestrade’s behest had demurred and changed the subject or had ended the line of inquiry with a cutting remark; even now, as elated as he was at his finishing time, his ire began to rise at the insipid questioning.

Sherlock blinked at the snow, at the reporter, at the stands where the fans were awaiting the arrival of the Austrian currently on the course. He looked past the glare of the sun at John, who was half-hidden by another medic but who was watching him casually, as though he didn’t really care what was happening with Sherlock.

But Sherlock knew otherwise, and that simple bit of knowledge bolstered him. He licked his lips and addressed the interviewer, addressed his audience. “Do I think my approach is better than others’, Candace? Yes, I do. Thanks,” and with that, he ducked away from the camera and back towards the athlete’s area.

He was in the middle of taking off his gloves when Lestrade found him once again and sat beside him, both of them quiet despite the clamor of the crowd as the Austrian finished. “You say what I think you said?” Greg asked, picking at the skin around his thumb, looking off into the distance.

“Are you here to _handle_ me? To chastise me?”

“Naw, naw. It’s your last big hurrah, I was wondering when you were going to unleash your true self on the masses.” Greg allowed his hands to fall into his lap and stared off into the distance. They were quiet again, Sherlock’s silence tenuous, as though he were waiting for the other shoe to drop. But Greg just glanced around them and leaned back to rest his seated weight on his palms. “Bad form if you don’t stick around for the other racers,” he mentioned offhand.

Sherlock set his gloves down in his lap and glanced sidelong at Greg. “I know.”

Shrugging, Greg reached into his parka pocket and held out Sherlock’s sunglasses to him and - rather than making a snide comment to him about how Molly _did_ know Sherlock’s every need and wasn’t it nice that Greg was so _accomodating_ \- he accepted them and slid them up onto the bridge of his nose. “Where’s Moriarty?”

“After Borgen, two racers down; you’re going to wait here?”

Sherlock scoped out the area and though the bleachers were packed, there was a small area set just in front of them for authorized personnel and athletes that was out of direct range of the television cameras. They would no doubt find Sherlock eventually, knowing of the “feud” between him and Moriarty, but hopefully he could avoid a direct reaction shot. “Over there.”

They meandered over, stopping along the way to accept words of congratulations from onlookers; as he passed by John from behind, he angled his elbow just _so_ and made glancing contact with John’s parka. It was stunning, the way John started, his face jumping from passive to delighted and engaged in seconds. “Oi, well done, Sherlock Holmes!” The others he was standing with turned in Sherlock’s direction and gave him applause, to which Sherlock silently inclined his head in thanks. 

He swore he could feel John’s gaze boring into him as he and Greg crossed to the benches.

After Borgen’s run, a Swiss racer crossed the line three tenths of a second behind Sherlock, and then a Russian, at nearly the same deficit. The scoreboards and screens flickered off of the Russian’s stats, and Moriarty’s name was displayed in brilliant, pixellated orange. The crowd behind Sherlock erupted in cheers - though, if he had to assess, they were not as boisterous or emphatic as the cheers to which he’d crossed the finish line. Simultaneously pleased and ashamed that he cared about such a thing, Sherlock turned his attention to the monitor displaying the feed of the race.

There, he’d be able to see Moriarty’s every move on the course.

His challenger came out of the gate explosively, body bent to perfection as he took on the first set of turns. Sherlock couldn’t rightly tell how well his skis were cutting into the snow due to the large pixels on the monitor and the sunlight that obstructed his view. He’d have to review tape of it later, when he was alone.

Still, there was no denying that Moriarty had skill, cutting right through the difficult angles of turns and preparing for jumps with a sort of grace that Sherlock even had to admit was impressive.Throughout the entire run he only wobbled once, but brashly leaned into the turn he was making and came out of it miraculously unscathed. 

Sherlock heard the gasps from the crowd and felt a tremor run through him; there had to be something going on, there simply _had_ to be. Sherlock could abide a lot of things, but Jim Moriarty being a better skier than he was, truly and actually, couldn’t be possible. Doing his best to relax his jaw and look at ease, knowing that the cameras would likely focus on him just after Moriarty crossed the finish line, Sherlock shifted his eyes to the clock that was flicking away the milliseconds.

Moriarty was a dot at the top of the hill, in sight of the spectators and closing in on Sherlock’s time. Sherlock took a deep breath, and then held the air in his lungs as his gaze flicked almost instantaneously to the body crossing the finish line and the clock.

One-tenth of a second.

Moriarty was only _one-tenth_ of a second behind him. 

Lestrade glanced at him and Sherlock glanced back, and then they both looked up at the jumbotron where Jim Moriarty’s face loomed large and grinning for the crowd to cheer. 

\---

Sherlock cleaned up, and after in-depth sit-downs with NBC Sports and the BBC, he found his way back to his hotel room and collapsed face-down on the bed. His gear would make it back to the hotel under the watchful gaze of his team and Lestrade was going to see about getting his skis retuned - “As a favor!” Lestrade has warned with a wink - but now he just needed to relax and _think_. The morning had taken it all out of him; he felt the strain in his muscles and in his joints, his knees in particular. He sighed heavily into the duvet and then peeled his face away, deciding that a long, hot bath would be quite nice. 

While the tub was filling he stripped and collected two large bottles of water from the minifridge, intending to get a jump on his hydration while relaxing. He didn’t have any oil or bubble bath so he poured a bit of his expensive shampoo beneath the running water and watched as it foamed up pleasantly. Snatching up his mobile from the bedroom, he stripped down and climbed into the pleasantly scalding water.

Sherlock sank until his neck was resting against the lip of the tub, stretching his arms out along either side; he closed his eyes on a pleased sigh, the tension and soreness draining from his limbs. He knew he should relax, get himself back into a placid state of mind, but he couldn’t help thinking about Moriarty.

There was something off about the man, about that much Sherlock was sure. But what? It was likely that he was using equipment that wasn’t to IOC code, altering his skis in some way; it was the only rational way for him to pull such fast times when he hadn’t been training as he once had. While it was Moriarty’s fourth Olympics as well and he was a seasoned skier, something about his qualifying times didn’t make sense. They kept getting _faster_ ; he kept shaving milliseconds off of his finishes with ease.

It was a hunch but a good one, and Sherlock generally trusted his instincts when it came to skiing. Moriarty’s constant goading of him - while not strange - only helped to bolster Sherlock’s inner assertion that his suspicions were correct. But to prove it, to prove it he’d need time and access to Moriarty’s belongings; he’d need information.

The only way he’d be able to figure out anything would be to have a look at Moriarty’s equipment, and that was likely being kept under lock and key with one of his trainers, or possibly with Moran or in his room. Sherlock had picked locks before (and he was rather sure the security of the rooms here in Sochi wasn’t up to snuff) but how would he possibly _prove_ it to the officials, to the IOC?

Sherlock sank his hands down into the hot water, sighing at the contact on his dry skin. 

It would be a different story altogether, Sherlock realized, if Moriarty were a better skier than he was, but he _knew_ , emphatically, that he was not. And the fact that he seemed to be passing as such for the entire world to see rankled Sherlock in an entirely personal way. He was someone who prided himself on being the best; he worked incredibly, painstakingly hard to get where he was and though he had the ego to go along with it, he _was_ a brilliant athlete.

He couldn’t collect evidence on Moriarty without calling his own morality and previous accolades into question; if he was to accuse another athlete of cheating, his own record would be called into question. Every one of his victories, his years of training and dedication and sacrifice would be pored over, bit by bit. They would ask the same questions of Sherlock; were his victories legitimate or was he accusing Moriarty because he too indulged in unsportsmanlike conduct?

Sherlock’s reputation, his career at this point, couldn’t sustain the intense scrutiny the world would place on him if he were to be incorrect about his accusations. No, Moriarty would have to be caught in the act, caught doing… whatever it was that he was doing to his equipment. Sherlock would need airtight evidence of dishonesty. _Easier thought than done_ , Sherlock mused, and slid down in the bath until the tip of his nose touched the water. 

One-tenth of a second. _One-tenth_.

And the smarmy smile that Moriarty had given the camera, knowing that Sherlock was watching, knowing that Sherlock was aware of just how close he’d come to out-skiing him. Blinking his eyes open, Sherlock looked across the expanse of water to the other end of the tub, resolute. First, he would discover what he could about the members of Moriarty’s ski team, and then he would figure out where their weaknesses lay. 

The final for the alpine downhill was in three days, and he and Moriarty would no doubt be the top qualifiers in the race. That didn’t give him much time to concoct many viable avenues of attack, and his newfound responsibility of providing the officials with a burden of proof they couldn’t ignore would certainly impinge on his generally tidy and focused state of mind.

Sherlock took a short little breath and then another, and sat up; the bathwater was turning cold and his limbs were beginning to ache anew. He needed ibuprofen and more water, and perhaps a nap before he was fit to do anything else. Though he deplored sleeping, he was aware of its very obvious restorative properties and recognized that after a nap he might be better suited to tackle the problem at hand.

After rinsing himself in the shower, Sherlock toweled off and meandered naked back into the bedroom. He crawled into bed, settled his wet head against the pillow and stared up at the ceiling. He’d raced unbelievably today and he could be proud of the time he’d put up. If only his nemesis hadn’t been so close on his heels, he would surely have felt much better.

Harping on it at the moment, however, would do him no good, so he closed his eyes and tried to even his breathing, dropping off to a light sleep after long minutes. Sherlock hovered in slumber, half in it, half out, the afternoon sunlight slinking slowly across the bed, warming his ankles and knees before it disappeared altogether. 

He roused feeling warm and heavy, and curled onto his side to allow consciousness to gently come into focus. After a yawn he curled onto his other side, stretched out his achy limbs and tosses his arms out to the side.

He snatched up his phone with one hand and ran his other through his hair. There were a dozen or so texts waiting for him and Sherlock smiled down at the screen, noticing that a few of them were from John. He noted that he’d had several missed calls, two from Molly, but didn’t have the patience for her voicemails at the moment. Generally, she would call him about the most inane things, giving him information that could be better shared via text, and he didn’t have the patience to listen to a ten minute message about how she’d given his skis a proper wipe down, as she _always_ did.

His eyes lingered on John’s name on the screen. There was no preview of the text on the home page and so he had to key in his passcode to unlock the mobile and read the rest.

Lestrade’s message was first and out of sheer habit, he read it: _Fastest time of the training runs! My congratulations is probably one of many but you know how I like to feed your ego.”_

Sherlock’s throat tightened briefly as he felt a burst of something in his chest; it took him a moment to place the feeling properly as jubilation. He’d felt he’d had a fantastic run but had doubted his time when Moriarty had put up a time that had been so close. In a fit of glee he located a pair of boxer briefs and tugged them on, tossing his phone down on the bed, and booting up his laptop to search for his own name in Google. 

The first article in the list was NBC Sports and Sherlock clicked on it.

> KRASNAYA POLYANA, Russia -- Firmly establishing himself as the man to beat, Sherlock Holmes was fastest Saturday in the final Olympic downhill training run. Holmes finished in 2 minutes, 6.09 seconds, three days before the first medal race on the Alpine schedule. The 36-year-old Brit also turned in the top time in Thursday's opening training session. Coming in a narrow second was the British-born Swiss racer James Moriarty.
> 
> When asked what Moriarty thought of his narrow second-place finish, Moriarty said, “Well, it just proves I can beat him. I will beat him. This is just practice, just child’s play. Wait until the medal race and I promise you’ll be dazzled.”
> 
> Officials are already dazzled at Moriarty’s prowess on the slopes, but many wonder if he truly has what it takes to podium over the British dynamo. Asked just minutes off of his training run best, Holmes claimed that his approach was better than anyone else’s. “I have no qualms about this course, I just have to tighten my form in some spots. The Russian Trampoline in particular is a killer.”

Halfway down the page, dividing the article was a line, “Japanese skier dies in accident on Rosa Khutor.” Sherlock read it once more before scrolling back to the top of the page, alarmed at the bright red news alert header that read the same.

Brow scrunched, Sherlock experienced a moment of complete and utter nothingness before his finger swiped the trackpad to click on the link.

> Japan’s Yuruhu Hanzu tragically crashed out on the Russian Trampoline portion of the Rosa Khutor downhill course this morning. A novice skier in his first Olympics, he was seen bobbling into the Trampoline and landed a jump on one ski, causing him to crash into the guard fence. He was seen being treated by course medics but was pronounced dead at the scene. 
> 
> Hanzu trained in Bern alongside many of the elite racers in this Olympics. His coach - who could not be reached for comment - once said that with a little bit more training, Hanzu would break into the A class skiers at the Olympics in Pyeongchang. 
> 
> The young skier was only twenty-two years old--

Sherlock stopped reading as his eyes blew wide; he swallowed thickly as a shiver ran through his body, visibly wracking him. He hadn’t known the man, to his knowledge but his death was incredibly shocking nonetheless. Something welled in his throat and he swallowed again, forcing it down

Forcibly shaking himself back to the present, Sherlock unlocked his phone once again, checking his other messages. Two from Molly asking where he was and then asking far more frantically the same. His mother had sent _That poor boy, did you know him?_ and another from Lestrade, further down, _This course is fucking dangerous! Let me know when you’re around, I want to stop by_. 

Belatedly, he went back and read John’s, the mention of the “course medics” reminding him that he’d never actually read the whole of John’s messages. 

The first read _I’ll be by your room when we finish here. I can’t believe someone died._ and the second _There’s more here than just an accident, need to discuss later._

Sherlock put the phone down and sat back in shock. His fingers moved stiffly over the keys of his laptop as he pulled up information about Hanzu. He didn’t know much about the skier, other than that he was new on the scene and he’d been training for the games in Switzerland with a cutthroat American coach. No one had expected the twenty-something to medal, but they certainly hadn’t expected him to _die_ either. 

He perused the information carefully, jumping from site to site, lead to lead until he stumbled across something that made him pause and reread. Hanzu’s coach trained his athletes out of the same city as Moriarty; the odds were great that - as elite level skiers - they practiced on the same mountains as well. Sherlock himself happened to train alongside many elite athletes himself, no matter how hard he tried to avoid such situations. 

Sherlock opened a search page and slowly, reservedly, typed in ‘skiing deaths, past ten years.’ He’d heard of a few over the course of his career. Novice skiers thinking they could outsmart nature, taking turns too quickly, demoing skis that were wrong for the terrain. Speed demons, many of them, getting high from the rush, allowing the rush to kill them. 

His search pulled up many results, and Sherlock clicked through each one, scanning the information for anything out of place. The first three articles were all course-related, too much snow, too many trees, too steep an incline. The fourth article made mention of a World Cup competitor, Geoff Rungren, who Sherlock had recalled skiing against in his youth. They hadn’t crossed paths much in the past ten years as Rungren had skied giant slalom when he went pro. 

Sherlock vaguely recalled his death - a training accident just outside of Bern. He’d not thought much about Rungren’s death, chalking it up to simply another freak accident. “Rungren was training at the Bernese Oberland complex where international elite skiers Ernst Egersheim and James Moriarty also train. Egersheim commented to us what a great tragedy it was to lose such a bright young athlete.” 

Sherlock blinked, went back, and opened the next article. It was small, but it was there; a tiny little thread, linking dead skiers to Jim Moriarty. 

What were the chances that Moriarty had crossed Hanzu’s path? What were the chances that they had _known_ each other? 

Though Hanzu was a novice on the elite circuit, they’d likely shared the powder at one time or another. Hanzu’s coach’s name was listed in articles mentioning Moriarty’s ex-coach. They’d known one another at some point and at the very least their coaches were connected. Sherlock couldn’t shake the niggling feeling that Moriarty had certainly done something to cause the young skier’s death. No one had died at the Olympic skiing event in half a decade and Sherlock wondered if he would be the only person to think that foul play might have been involved. 

Sherlock then delved for Hanzu’s times, wondering if he was somehow likely to podium, or to threaten Moriarty’s (and therefore his own) likelihood of medalling. There was nothing to suggest that the young man would even fall in the top of the B level competitors; that avenue of investigation was a dead end, then. 

Generally, Sherlock deleted information that wasn’t relevant to him, or wasn’t important enough to skiing to warrant keeping in his mind. But there was something, a niggling little something that pricked at the back of his brain... 

Settling back against the headboard, he steepled his hands in front of his mouth and breathed out a cleansing sigh. His mind whirred, hands unconsciously gesturing as though he were physically moving the ideas around from one place to another. Seven years prior, in Norway, World Cup qualifying. The top downhill racer at the time, Cody Jackson, has suffered a torn ACL on a course that he’d been slated to dominate. 

The skiing world had been shocked, and Sherlock had gone on to win the event, Moriarty clinching silver, a point which he bemoaned in the press for days. Sure, skiers had large egos, Sherlock could attest to that (though he wouldn’t readily admit it.) But had Moriarty been intending to win by any means necessary? 

He was in the midst of reviewing what he knew - head tipped back and eyes shifting beneath closed lids - when there was a pounding at his room door. Startled out of his reverie, he bounded up from the bed and tossed open the door, realizing rather belatedly that he was naked save for a pair of black boxer briefs. 

“John,” he said in surprise. “I wasn’t sure when-” 

“Can I come in?” John cut him off, just as he too seemed to realize that Sherlock was mostly nude. He rested his tongue on his bottom lip and stood still for a moment, his eyes running over the expanse of skin on display. He visibly reined himself in, shaking whatever thoughts were in his head right out on a sigh.  


“Unless this is a bad time, I can… I can come back-” 

“Not a bad time. Had a kip, woke to the news. Please.” He stood back and gestured John in with a sweep of his arm. John walked past and Sherlock ducked into the bathroom and retrieved a fluffy white robe, pulling it around himself haphazardly. 

John walked into the room, paced between the window and the table of the living room and then stopped, hands balled into fists at his sides. “So.” 

“You were on site, I take it,” Sherlock said quietly, padding over to stand closer to John; he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch, but he could remain close in the case that John needed comfort. 

“Broken neck,” John said gravely, fists thumping into his thighs. “Broken neck, can you believe-” 

“John,” Sherlock rasped, reaching out for him with one hand; John pulled back, just far enough away that Sherlock couldn’t reach him and looked up. 

“Needless, just… horrific. You wouldn’t expect something like that at, at the Olympics and I just…” John blinked up at him, eyes unfocused, a little lost, and Sherlock felt something shatter inside of him. 

“ _I_ was on site, _I_ treated him and I couldn’t…” John’s eyes trailed away and Sherlock stepped up into his personal space and in a move that felt both entirely foreign and entirely appropriate, he draped one long arm around John’s lower back and and slid the other hand up to John’s nape. 

“John, there’s nothing to be done for a broken neck.” He curled his fingers around John’s own neck and held him there against his chest, gentle enough that he could break away if needed. 

Sherlock could feel John’s head rocking against his chest, nodding. “I know that, I know. It’s just…” He pulled his face back, looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and smiled sadly. “I don’t know,” He blew out a breath and stepped out of the circle of Sherlock’s arms to slump back down into the couch. “And I don’t know why I came here.” 

Standing before him, Sherlock shrugged and said quietly, “Yes you do.” 

John blinked up at him in shock, anger rimming his irises, before the look faded away into resignation and acceptance. There was no one else; John wasn’t the sort of man who let his guard down, but he’d done so in front of Sherlock. He’d chosen Sherlock. “...Sorry.” 

There was a slight little smile on his lips when he stepped forward and sat next to John on the sofa. “No need to apologize. It’s… alright. I’m glad you’re here.” 

“Are you?” 

Sherlock searched John’s eyes, his face, before he brought a hand up to skim the backs of his fingertips over a cheek. “I am, yes. I very much am.” When his hand fell to his lap John tipped forward, their lips brushing intimately, slowly. 

When Sherlock pulled back, the color was high on John’s cheeks, but he seemed content to just share in Sherlock’s space, not pushing for any further intimacy. There was trust there, in his gaze, a sort of solidified assuredness that Sherlock had seen from very few people in his life. He made up his mind about what he wanted to do instantly. 

“You’re a soldier,” Sherlock said quietly, watching as John’s eyes narrowed as he nodded. “A doctor, both occupations which rely heavily on trust. Quite fit, too, able to hold your own in a fight.” 

“I… sure, yeah? Thanks?” John said, unsure of where Sherlock was headed. 

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment,” Sherlock murmured, sitting back so he could impress upon John the graveness of the situation. “I have something to tell you, something to share with you that might be… difficult.” 

“Okay,” John said on a breath, settling his hands palms-down on his knees. “I’ve something to tell you, as well. You’re uhm, you might think I’m crazy but just…” 

Sherlock blinked. “Go on.” 

John swallowed, glanced down at his hands and then met Sherlock’s eyes with a look of conviction. “I think your guy Moriarty had something to do with this.” 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m quite glad you weren’t put off by my behavior on the plane, when we first met.”

Sherlock sank back into the sofa, hands on his thighs. A million thoughts buzzed through his mind, the most insistent of which was that he and John shared the same suspicion. “I was about to tell you the same.”

“Oh,” John breathed, surprised, leaning back into the arm of the couch, looking haggard and stunned all at once. “Jesus. Yeah I… yeah.”

Sherlock stared down at the table for a long moment, allowing the tidbits of information that he’d come across to flit over the screen of his mind. Sherlock had numerous reasons for suspecting Moriarty, the foundation of implicating data fairly strong in Sherlock’s mind. But what had John seen or heard that made him believe similarly? Sherlock’s eyes traced the fabricated patterns in the faux wood for a moment more before turning to snap his gaze to John’s face. “But what leads you to believe he had something to do with Hanzu’s death? Did you see something? Hear something? Anything?”

John bit his bottom lip and considered. He looked unsure for a moment, put a little off-kilter by Sherlock’s scrutiny, but as the seconds ticked by his eyes and face cleared; John leveled his gaze across the sofa at Sherlock, resolute. “I don’t want to say that it’s a hunch because it makes me feel like I’m losing it but, his guy, the big one - Moran - was talking to his trainer yesterday and it just, it was odd. They stuck out, you know? Moran was speaking Japanese which struck me as strange. Big hulking idiot like that?” John mimicked Sherlock’s pose, slapping his palms down onto his legs.

Sherlock blinked, narrowing his gaze. John swallowed thickly. “And now a man, a _kid_ really, Christ, is dead. And he was skiing for Japan, it just seems… it could be nothing, just a coincidence but, it struck me as strange.”

“It does seem, yes, unlikely that this is a coincidence.” Sherlock noted. He kept his gaze on John, his blinking rapidly as he speculated as to why Moran would know Japanese, why he would _need_ to know Japanese.

“I just don’t want it to seem as though…”

Sherlock leaned close to John’s end of the sofa. “What?”

John’s mouth twisted into frown. “As though you’re paranoid. Or _we’re_ paranoid. As if this is born from some misguided attempt to keep him from medalling because he’s your biggest competition.” He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “You’re in your last Olympics and he’s your biggest rival and I-”

“And you?”

“I…” John seemed to consider his words carefully, even as he reached out a hand to rest over Sherlock’s knoee. “I want you to win, I think I’ve made that rather plain. And not just to you. I like you a lot and I don’t- I don’t like how he baits you, how he talks about you in the press. I just don’t. And if that colors my judgement then…”

“We’ve known each other for five days, John,” Sherlock said in wonder as John’s praise nestled itself in the depths of his chest. “You’re a marvel,” he murmured, even quieter, gaze turning sweet and open and surprised. Their eyes locked and the tips of John’s ears colored bright red; Sherlock couldn’t help it, he laughed, the sight of John flustered sweet and heady.

“Yeah,” John said with a grin; he tugged at the short hairs on the nape of his neck, massaging a palm into the notch of spine as he turned his face away for a moment before dragging it back to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Well…”

Sherlock’s mouth tipped upward in a smile. John smiled back cautiously and licked his lips, sat up a bit straighter; he cleared his throat, straightened his spine and took on a stance Sherlock could only place as military. John looked steadfast, ready to take on the battles that lay ahead. “So, where do we begin?” he asked, all business. “After all, you’re the one who likes puzzles.”

His mouth curved into another quick smile, Sherlock stood from the couch and retrieved his laptop, bringing it over for John to see. “This is much of what I discovered this morning. No concrete evidence but surely enough for us to be going on.” 

He sat back and waited for John to flip through the various articles he’d pulled up. While John read, Sherlock reclined and allowed himself a moment of sheer appreciation for John Watson. His strong callused hands, the line of his shoulders, the efficient, military cut of his hair. This was a handsome man, and that, coupled with John’s obvious intelligence, apparent penchant for disregarding what was best for him, and attraction to Sherlock, made him very nearly perfect.

Sherlock snatched up his phone from the arm of the sofa and twiddled it between thumb and forefinger before shooting off a few quick responses to Lestrade and Molly, assuring them that he’d heard the news and that he’d be in touch with the both of them later.

John continued to click through the tabs and when he was finished, he set the laptop down on the table. “That’s an awful lot to be going on and if it’s true, he’s not only likely been cheating since the beginning of his career, he’s responsible for other deaths.”

“Precisely.”

“Right, well, since we know that, how do we proceed? Think of how closely your equipment is watched. If Moriarty is up to something nefarious, you’d have to imagine they’d be keeping his things under even closer guard.”

Sherlock’s hands steepled against his mouth, elbows resting against his knees as he thought. They’d need evidence, no doubt. Physical evidence that could be brought as proof; the connections Sherlock had made based on past incidents were suspect at best. Tapping his index fingers against his lips, he sat back, allowing his hands to fall into his lap. “True, and if Moran is managing his things we can only assume that they’ll be in Moran’s room when not in use. But there’s nothing for it, unfortunately; we’ll need to see his skis. We can’t be sure he wasn’t tampering with Hanzu’s skis, but they’ve likely been taken for evidence. If we can’t get Moriarty’s gear, then we’ll see what we can do about getting a look at Hanzu’s.”

“If we’re caught,” John began carefully and paused midway through. “If _you’re_ caught there’ll be consequences.”

Sherlock smirked. “Then we’ll have to do our best not to be caught, won’t we?”

John’s lips twisted in apprehension; he sighed and reconsidered what he seemed to be about to say. After a brief pause, John bit at his bottom lip and pressed on, “You’re still in this, Sherlock. Is this going to distract you from training? Are you-”

“I can focus on two things at once, John,” came his slightly clipped reply. “I do have that ability.”

“Alright, you arse, what I’m saying is if they catch you with anyone else’s equipment you’re going to be tossed. And it’s your last Olympics. Is that something you’re willing to risk?”

“A man has _died_.”

“And it’s terrible, I know, I’m just wondering if this wouldn’t be better left for after the downhill is over. If you find something, _when_ you find something, there’s going to be a media circus, a scandal, and it’s going to cause the IOC to turn a serious eye on all skiers. Are you sure you’re ready for that?” 

Sherlock blinked at him, silent for a time before he murmured, “We.”

“What?”

“When _we_ find something.”

“Oh,” John breathed, dragging a palm over his face. “Yeah.”

He swallowed and blinked down at his lap. “And if Moriarty is responsible for this, these deaths, think about what danger you’re in Sherlock. He could target you, he could-” 

“If Moriarty wanted me gone, one would think he wouldn’t have waited until _now_ , yes?” Sherlock scoffed aloud and rolled his eyes, batting away John’s concern with a flip of his hand. “You’re in this too. If something goes awry you’ll be scrutinized as well. Can you handle that? Are you willing to risk your reputation for something that may prove fruitless?”

John ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “I don’t care about what happens to me, I care about-”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed and he asked the question even though he knew the answer. “Me?”

“Yes,” John said vehemently, nostrils flaring with the force of his words.

Sherlock swallowed, gaze intense on John. “ _Why_?”

John rolled his eyes and stood, pacing the length of the room. “I don’t- you’re intense and _good_ and, and, fun and I just like you. I…”

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a small smile.

“And even if you’re fishing for compliments I have to say that you’re… gorgeous and intelligent and yeah, brilliant, _exciting_ and I just, I _like_ you. Want to get to know you more, want to… I don’t know, this all sounds rather exciting though. This investigating a murder business,” John finished with a flourish, cheeks flushed from his diatribe as he stopped and stood with his hands on his hips.

Sherlock’s mouth had taken to grinning as John had gone on, and he stood, rounding the coffee table to stand before an obviously worked-up John. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he said softly, hands coming to cradle John’s bent elbows.

“Yeah,” John said petulantly, looking down at his shoes as he huffed. “Well, too bad, I do.”

Gazing down at John, Sherlock allowed his hands to trail down the man’s forearms until they reached where his hands rested on his hips. Sherlock circled thumb and forefinger around his wrists and bent down, just moving his lips over John’s. “You’re a strange man,” he whispered, brushing the tip of his nose against John’s. 

John’s arms went lax, his hands and Sherlock’s falling to his side. “Am I?” he muttered. “So are you.”

“The pair of us,” Sherlock chuckled.

John smiled, chin tipping up and accepting Sherlock’s mouth on his, the innocent kiss turning heated quickly, Sherlock’s robe slipping open just a bit to bare the middle of his chest. John shook off Sherlock’s hands, bringing them low around Sherlock’s waist, fingertips pressing suggestively against the firm curve of arse beneath.

Sherlock reciprocated in kind, backing off to take teasing nips at John’s lips and chin before delving back in, slicking their tongues together. Tilting his mouth downward, warm breath puffing against John’s mouth, he said slyly, “It’s getting late.”

John didn’t bother glancing at the clock. “So it is.”

“John,” Sherlock said into the skin of his neck, tongue pressing flat and firm against John’s carotid. “Would you like to spend the night?” 

Sherlock swallowed, knowing he’d wanted to wait for this, this intimacy. But John had made it perfectly plain that he wanted more with Sherlock, that what was developing between them would reach far beyond the physical. If he’d been worried about John’s intentions, John had clarified them with a few heartfelt words. Sherlock’s blood thickened and slowed in his veins as his heart beat painfully in his chest; he could imagine much more with this man, a lifetime more, and Sherlock found the need to prove that with his body.

He wanted to prove with his hands and lips and tongue and cock how positively extraordinary he found John Watson. It was a strange feeling, though not unwelcome, wanting to be so close and intimate with someone whom he’d really only just met. But something in his core, something deep down in his gut evened out and settled at the thought of having John in his bed.

Of pleasing him, waking up with him, doing this again. And again. And again.

Sherlock’s nose just brushed John’s jawline and he watched on as John’s Adam’s apple bobbed with the force of his swallow. “Sure that’s what you want?” And Sherlock could feel the reverberations of the words against his lips. “Just FYI, you won’t be rid of me easily if you take me to bed.”

“What makes you think I want to be rid of you?” Sherlock placed a wet, open mouthed kiss in the hollow of his throat.

“Just wanted to be plain about it. You’re an international skiing superstar, I’m a washed up doctor, on paper doesn’t seem like a very likely match,” John scoffed, his hands coming up to hold Sherlock around his hips.

“Self-deprecation.” Sherlock dragged his lips up to the curve of John’s ear. “Not sexy.”

John’s head lolled back on his shoulders as a quiet groan escaped him. “Just the truth.”

“I’m extraordinary; you don’t think I’d waste my time with someone who wasn’t worth it, now, do you?”

“Hah.” There was a pause and John righted his head, blinking at Sherlock as he pulled away. “And humble.”

They stared at one another for a long moment, John’s swiping his tongue over his upper lip and eyes blown wide with arousal. Sherlock looked back at him, honest and open and just as aroused as John was. Sherlock blinked, took a step back and slid his fingers through the belt loops on John’s jeans. “You’ve had a long day,” he breathed. “Please consider staying here even if we don’t get up to anything.”

“Not taking me to bed, then?” John laughed languidly, eyes slipping shut as he allowed Sherlock’s arms to wind around his back in a hug.

“That I most certainly am, though in what context is entirely up to you. I’m in no rush.” His prick gave a twitch to suggest otherwise but Sherlock did his best to ignore it, recognizing that after the day John had had, perhaps intercourse wasn’t appropriate. 

John smiled down at his feet. “Shouldn’t we be strategizing about what to do about Moriarty?”

“I don’t mean to downplay the importance of our uncovering evidence on him, but we’ve all night for that,” Sherlock breathed, bringing a hand up, his thumb stroking against the hair at John’s nape.

John blinked his eyes slowly open. “I am… exhausted but I wouldn’t mind…” His gaze flickered towards the bedroom and then back to Sherlock. John stepped forward, rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder and said, “I want to touch you, and I’d really, _really_ like you to touch me.”

Smiling against John’s hair, he left a kiss and blindly found John’s left hand in his right and led him through the sitting room - turning off the light as he went - and into the bedroom. Sherlock moved to close the shades and when he turned back, John had removed his ski sweater and vest, chest on display. Sherlock stopped mid-step and grinned, allowing his gaze to flick to the floor before he glanced up at John with his tongue resting against his upper lip.

“Eager?”

John grinned lazily back. “Just take off the robe.”

Sherlock looked smug as he undid the sash with deft fingers, the terrycloth pooling on the floor. He stood before John in just his pants, cotton covering a swelling erection. “Should have figured you’d look like this,” John said, pacing up to Sherlock slowly. “Olympic athlete and all, but _Christ_.” John’s hands settled on Sherlock’s hips, thumbs dipping below the band of the boxer briefs. “You look like you stepped out of a magazine.”

“Flattery,” Sherlock chuckled, “will get you _everywhere_.”

John pressed against the skin beneath his fingertips, walked Sherlock to the bed and with a hand to the center of his chest, pushed Sherlock down onto the duvet. “Fantastic, though I’ll do without the cliches.”

Sherlock barked out a laugh, nodded in agreement and tugged John down onto the bed, causing him to sprawl out awkwardly onto his stomach. Twisting, Sherlock lay out on the bed, head resting on his hand. “Today, I am sorry… that you had to deal with that. I want you to know, truly.”

John responded quietly. “Yeah that, thank you, yeah, I’d just erm, rather not think about it for the moment. I don’t want to think about that right now.”

His free hand came up to brush against John’s clothed thigh. “I can work with that.” He manhandled John onto his back, John chuckling as he allowed Sherlock to have his way. He managed to undo John’s belt and tug it away from his jeans, the leather catching on the denim once or twice, causing John to have to shift his body this way and that. 

Eagerly, Sherlock climbed up onto his knees and undid John’s flies, spreading the fabric out to create a vee of space that revealed dark green pants. Sherlock trailed two fingers teasingly over John’s trapped cock. John’s legs moved, struggling as he attempted to toe off his shoes and socks where they dangled over the edge of the bed. 

“This’d go a lot more smoothly if you’d let me up for a moment,” John muttered, managing to get both shoes kicked off and across the room.

Sherlock added a third finger, pressing it along John’s dick. “Where’s the fun in that?”

John smiled and huffed, sat up, slapped Sherlock’s hand away as he quickly stood, shucking himself efficiently of his socks, jeans and pants. Sherlock shimmied up on the bed, watching as John’s muscles played beneath the splay of golden skin. The bulky winter wear had hidden the defined body beneath; though John wasn’t an Olympic athlete, the lithe form before Sherlock spoke of physical fitness and care.

“Much better,” he announced as he walked around to the other side of the bed, comfortable in his nudity, and climbed on, reaching out immediately to bring Sherlock’s mouth to his. They kissed languidly, John allowing Sherlock to take the upper hand after a moment, bending to Sherlock’s demanding body as it draped over his own. John maneuvered down on the bed until his head rested firmly in the middle of a pillow, Sherlock’s body hovering just above his.

Their erections brushed lightly - John’s naked to Sherlock’s clothed - and the sweet friction caused them both to gasp and press into one another. Sherlock held in a groan as their slick tongues licked and tasted, hot breath ghosting over cheeks as they tore away to sip at air before ducking back in, mouths together. 

John was making quiet little noises, mewls of approval and stuttered moans that were swallowed up when Sherlock ducked in for another kiss, a deeper kiss.

He was the first to divert, licking his way across John’s stubbly jaw until his mouth was pressed at John’s neck; wet, open-mouthed kisses slipped up John’s skin until Sherlock’s lips teased behind his right ear, Sherlock noting the immediate and strong reaction it caused. John’s hips rolled up immediately, hardness flush with Sherlock’s as he groaned deeply in something like pleasure-pain. 

Leaning on his left hip, Sherlock slung his right leg over John’s, tangling them together as he grinned stupidly at the lush reactions he was pulling from John. Bringing his right palm to his mouth, Sherlock licked a wide stripe across the skin and then moved to take John’s cock in hand. 

“Oh,” came his sigh, and John’s eyes slipped shut, mouth falling open in something like awe.

Sherlock grinned, twisting his wrist as he settled his lips and nose against the side of John’s neck, working out what made John respond most forcefully. As it turned out, Sherlock found he was quite good at making John sigh and moan and grinned into the flesh at John’s sternum as he hid his face there and teased John’s fraenulum with his fingertips. 

It had been some time since Sherlock had done something like this but he fell into it easily, experimenting with pace and pressure briefly before finding a rhythm that had John panting out incoherent words into the air between them. He smeared kisses against John’s mouth, their tongues sliding messily. John’s hand came up to twine in Sherlock’s hair, holding Sherlock’s mouth to his own as Sherlock stroked his prick with precision.

Sherlock smiled at John’s unravelling, his chest expanding with the knowledge that John _wanted_ him, wanted to be touched like this, by him. 

It wasn’t long before John’s whole body seized, and with a stutter of his hips, he came in spurts all over his belly and Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock worked him through it, mouth panting hot breath against John’s face as he groaned and spent himself, right arm sliding and gently flailing against Sherlock’s torso as he did so.

Sherlock hummed happily into John’s skin as John got his breath back, languid movement coming back to his limbs as he shifted to his side and curled around Sherlock. John trailed a hand through the mess on his stomach and licked at Sherlock’s cheek. “C’mere, you.”

“Right here,” Sherlock returned blissfully as John’s warm, slick hand covered his cock, stroking lightly. His left arm curled around John’s shoulders and tugged him in, John’s chest flush to Sherlock’s side. John’s shifted on his side to give himself more room, slipping his fingers round the base of Sherlock’s cock and jerking him slowly, sloppily.

Sherlock kept his upper teeth slotted hard into his bottom lip, hips giving aborted little thrusts into John’s palm. “I,” Sherlock whispered, throat closing as John slicked his fingers just _so_. “I…”

“Yeah?” John asked, pressing himself up and over, leaving open-mouthed kisses to cool as he meandered down Sherlock’s torso. “You what?”

John blinked up at Sherlock, his chin hovering just over the man’s prick and Sherlock grinned once at him before allowing his eyes to fall closed. “I’m quite glad you weren’t put off by my behavior on the plane, when we first met.”

John gave a bark of a chuckle, sucked a kiss into the rise of Sherlock’s hip and then took him into his mouth. Hot, tight wetness engulfed him and Sherlock sighed, his hands drifting to John’s hair of their own volition; they twined in the short growth, just holding on as John moved his head. His movements were heavenly, and Sherlock felt coils of tension he didn’t know existed give and release from his body as John tongued him. John gave wet little kisses at the head before slurping him down again, doing nothing to quiet the obscene noises he was making.

It was when John slipped his fingers back around, abandoning Sherlock’s sac to press teasingly at the ring of muscle just behind that Sherlock’s arousal peaked. “God,” he grit out, “It’s, I’m going to…”

“Come, then,” John pulled off to mention, almost casually, and then allowed the head of Sherlock’s cock to rest in the cup of his tongue as he jerked him exquisitely. Sherlock managed to peek an eye open and took in John, mouth quirked in a half-smile, slipping his hands over Sherlock’s skin, trying to make him come.

With a groan, he spilled, John’s hand never leaving him, his lips just ghosting against the skin of his prick until he was through and spent, and he jumped when he felt John’s tongue at his thigh and his belly, smacking kisses against his skin.

Sherlock jerked and groaned, flopping an arm out to his side, into which John crawled and laid himself out, happy and sated, judging by the coy little smile on his lips.

They lay side by side, chests rising and falling in time as their skin cooled; John arranged his legs and managed to slip his calves just under the edge of the duvet. Sherlock risked a glance across the bed and was rewarded with a relaxed, sleepy-looking bed partner. 

The room smelled of sweat and sex and underneath it, the new, rich scent of the man beside him. Sherlock’s eyelids slipped closed and he allowed himself a moment to drift, to allow the endorphins to finish sizzling through his veins and leave him completely wiped out and sated. He couldn’t imagine moving from the bed at the moment, but John had been right earlier when he’d mentioned that they should begin developing a plan in regard to Moriarty.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open as he recalled the bright glint in John’s eye even as he warned Sherlock of the possible repercussions of investigating, even as he acknowledged the risks they would face.

“You like the danger,” Sherlock said, voice low and velvety, breath ghosting over the crest of John’s ear.  
John kept his back straight against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, as Sherlock’s fingertips trailed lightly down his arms. 

“Yeah, guess I do.”

“Good,” Sherlock said and bounced over onto his stomach, shifting so that his chin was perched in the cup of his palm, lips pulling back to reveal a delighted, dark grin. “I like that you like danger.”

“Okay…” John breathed as Sherlock’s gazed down at him.

“I like _you_ ,” he growled as he bent down to John’s ear.

“Oh.”

“Yes,” he chuckled, peeking his tongue out to just slick over John’s right lobe. “Oh, indeed. Let’s go catch ourselves a criminal, John.”

John’s face tilted up and their gazes locked, Sherlock’s expectant, John’s void of all emotion. Sherlock felt a curl of doubt unfurl in his stomach but he didn’t let it reach his eyes; he laid before John and waited. 

It was with a low, rough voice that John delivered his next words, so heavy and full of promise that the thrill Sherlock felt race down his spine manifested itself physically in a full body shiver. “Oh god, yes.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Right,” John said and raised his hand up to signal for the waiter. “We eat and then we break and enter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Erin my dear, thanks a bunch, a ton, a whole heck of a lot for, you know, this entire chapter, basically.

With plans to meet John for lunch, Sherlock spent his afternoon pursuing a few avenues of investigation into Moriarty's possible involvement in Hanzu's death. At the gym, he dodged a flurry of media personnel who had spotted him and ducked into the building, his trademark sunglasses obscuring his eyes. Elite level athletes didn’t die while performing their sports, it just didn’t happen, and so it was no surprise that the amount of press waiting at the gym to get soundbites from the athletes was so large.

He listened while he was on the machines, killing two birds with one stone, but he didn’t come up with anything other than exclamations of shock about Hanzu's death and general criticisms over the complexity of the course. Sherlock wasn’t surprised that he was the only one in the skiing community to believe foul play to have had a part in the tragedy, they’d been overlooking Moriarty’s skin-of-the-teeth wins and strange athlete injuries for years. 

He was mildly frustrated that the scapegoat was the course, which Sherlock conceded was rather difficult but was also a thing of beauty. A spike of anger cut through him, then, at the thought that Moriarty would so seamlessly be able to pass off his crime under the veil of a dangerous course.

Sherlock struggled to clear his mind, remove himself from the emotions that were welling in his chest and listen to the bustle around him. It was a long shot, thinking that any of the other competitors might know something and let it slip. Still, he needed to be certain that most of them were off the course and accounted for here if he was to see what he could find at Moriarty’s villa; he couldn’t run the risk of getting caught by one of the other skiers, especially not one that held Moriarty in high regard.

From his perch at the leg press - just outside the field of vision of anyone entering the gym but giving him a line of sight to whoever may show up - he waited for Moriarty while also managing to do the bulk of his workout for the day. He couldn’t let his own regime lag just because he was attempting to prove a murder; he was still striving for gold.

He didn’t have to wait long before Moriarty showed up with his entourage, the hulking form of Moran pulling up the rear; he scanned the occupants of the main floor and Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat to ensure he’d be seen when Moran’s gaze tracked to the corner. 

They exchanged a brief heated glare that Sherlock severed, appearing to be too caught up in his reps to pay the man any more mind.

Once Moriarty and his followers had rounded the corner towards the locker room, Sherlock slipped from his seat and made his way hastily down the corridor in the opposite direction. It wouldn’t do for the press to see him sneaking away, so Sherlock located a service door used by the employees and ducked outside into the mid-morning sunlight.

He made his way around the backs of the buildings, not wanting anyone to recognize and stop him for a chat or an autograph; he had limited time on his hands. It took him a short while and a few tight alleyways to reach the small, hurriedly-built villa that Moriarty had rented. It was no secret where he was staying as he’d been doing interviews from the location for a few days now. 

The structure looked as though it had been completed just yesterday and the layout looked both confusing and ill-reasoned. It was a good bet that there wasn’t any security on the premises; even if Moriarty had contracted someone to install a system, it would likely be bulky and ostentatious - Sherlock couldn’t imagine Sochi offered much in the way of surveillance equipment. Besides, Moriarty was paranoid but he was certainly more concerned with his ego; with the way he was presenting like a peacock, Sherlock doubted he’d felt the _need_ to install security, especially with Moran at hand. 

After making certain there was no one to see him, he made his way stealthily around to the back. There was no basement to the structure, so Sherlock rushed silently up the back steps and tried the door. It rattled weakly but didn’t give, so he went around to the windows he could reach and tried at each one. The construction was bizarre, some windows obviously different models than the others, but none of them gave way under his ministrations. Sherlock cursed himself for not thinking ahead and bringing something to try to pry the windows open with. 

What a foolish idea, he reminded himself after a moment. Surely they would notice if a window had been _pried_ open. It seemed his only likely option was to pick the lock on either the front or the back door. Whipping out his mobile, he took photographs of the back door and the windows that he could easily see, knowing he needed to make quick work of the rest of the home. 

He didn’t want to attempt to get in through the front door unless he’d exhausted his other options, and now, as he made his way back to the front, he noted that the thoroughfare had become too busy for his presence to go unnoticed. Cursing himself, he checked the time and found that he had just enough to get back to his room for a shower and meet John. 

John was already seated at a table when Sherlock showed up, but Sherlock requested that they be seated in a more private spot on the second level; it wouldn’t do to have more paparazzi photos surface in the midst of his investigation. It was a delicate matter and Sherlock’s credibility would be on the line if he brought any damning evidence to light. He didn’t need the added stress of the media prying into his personal life alongside that. 

Once seated, John lifted his eyebrows twice and Sherlock smiled faintly at him before John slid his left leg in between Sherlock’s. “So, by the look on your face I’m going to assume that you didn’t come up with much of anything either?” Sherlock squeezed John’s calf with his ankles and then bit his lip, scanning the crowd below them.

John shifted in his seat a bit and cleared his throat awkwardly as the waiter dropped a bottle of vodka and a basket of brown bread off and scurried away. Sherlock’s attention was still on the floor below, but he felt John tense, heard him clear his throat again. Twisting the bottle between his fingers, John mentioned, “This stuff is like water here. Didn’t even order it this time.”

“Hmmm,” came Sherlock’s response, eyes narrowing as he thought he recognized a reporter from the BBC. Hawkishly, he leaned further towards the bannister and scanned the crowd more thoroughly. He felt John tug his foot in an attempt to withdraw it from Sherlock’s hold, coming to the wrong conclusion about Sherlock’s inattention.

“I’m simply ensuring that we won’t be plastered all over The Daily Mail tomorrow,” Sherlock said, and blinked at him as he turned to glance across the table. “I’d rather we both didn’t have to worry about our public image but, for the time being…”

Sherlock smiled at him and knocked a knee against John’s and John pressed back, warmth seeping through Sherlock’s trousers and suffusing his entire frame; it was lovely. “Believe me when I say I’d much rather be in a situation where I could readily give you one-hundred percent of my attention.”

John slumped back in his seat, placated, a pleased smile on his face, and waited as Sherlock satisfied himself that there was no one present that would recognize them together and turned his attention, finally, back to John. “I went by the villa that Moriarty is staying at. Everything was locked tight, as expected, though I didn’t spot a security system. The lock on the back door looks rudimentary enough.”

John raised a single brow. “You’re saying we should attempt to pick it?”

Sherlock gave a half-smile at that, the usage of _we_. A warm weight had settled in his stomach and he reached across the table to where John’s hand was resting palm down and tapped it twice. “Precisely.”

John gave a silent chuckle, “Lucky for you that’s somewhat of a skill of mine.”

Sherlock’s answering laugh was disbelieving, “Oh is that so? How does one come by that skill?”

“I don’t want to say I was a bit of a delinquent, but several friends had parents with locked liquor cabinets…”

“Ah, yes, wouldn’t want to break into your parents’, I assume, they’d know.” Sherlock perked up with his deduction, looking at John smugly. He realized an instant too late that that was possibly the wrong thing to do.

John bristled a bit, sitting up straighter. “What?”

“Alcoholic parents, obvious, the way you’re very cautious about the amount of alcohol you imbibe.” He couldn’t stop himself; the words came, ringing out between them. Sherlock could feel the next deduction bubbling up within him and felt helpless to stop it. This had been an issue for him in the past, causing alienation and anger; generally he used it as a defense mechanism to keep others away. It was second nature to him now, and the observations came before he could process them properly.

Sherlock didn’t want to push John away, give him a reason to pull away. He did his best to quickly rectify the damage he’d surely done and reroute the conversation. “Not too worried that you’re headed down that path, clearly and you shouldn’t be, John, but you remind yourself at every turn... now lock picking, that’s a skill that could come in handy and oh, don’t look at me like that I just-”

John’s lips were tight when he cut Sherlock off: “What?”

His tongue passed over his lips, Sherlock taking a breath and swallowing thickly. His fingers tapped against the tabletop. “I… see it in you. I see quite a lot about you, actually. I can’t help it, it’s second nature to me.” Sherlock picked at the skin around his thumbnail and did his best to keep his eyes on John’s face. “And I suppose I should mention that, I, I like what I see. Of you. All of it, it’s… good.”

“All of it, all of me,” John spoke the words like he was testing them on his tongue, a little skeptically. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, wondering suddenly if this is where it would all go off of the rails for them. He’d been nothing but himself with John and it was rather surprising and confusing that John had put up with him for so long. It was a long, pregnant silence before Sherlock nodded his head once briskly, affirming his previous statement, and waited for John to decide if Sherlock liking him was a good thing or otherwise.

John poured himself out a neat finger of vodka and swallowed it in one go, passing the back of his hand over his mouth afterward and leveling Sherlock with a hard stare. “Yeah,” he said eventually, “yeah, well that’s just about alright, isn’t it?”

“Is it?”

“Oh yes,” John said, laughed and poured Sherlock a drink. “But back to the… whatever it is.” John grinned and sat up straighter in the booth and Sherlock felt a wave of relief. “All _I_ could find out was that Hanzu’s neck had broken clearly, he didn’t suffer, he was gone instantly. I asked after his gear, got some weird looks for it, but they said his ski team took it away, don’t know if it was looked at or not.”

Sherlock figured that neither one of them would come up with much without actually getting a look at the equipment but he found he was still disappointed. “There’s nothing for it, then, we’ll need to be putting your skills to work.”

“When?”

Sherlock considered, “After we eat, though we’ll have to do it quickly.”

“We can go now if you’d rather-”

“I’ve got to keep my energy up. There’s a training run tomorrow and I can’t afford to let this get in the way, not again. I’m not going to let Moriarty derail me, not now.” With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock opened the menu and then glanced up at John from beneath his eyelashes. 

“Right,” John said and raised his hand up to signal for the waiter. “We eat and then we break and enter.”

\----

They finished their meal quickly and in a comfortable silence; there was no real discussion of what the plan was. Sherlock was quite sure that he and John were on the same page and John gave the impression that he could not only hold his own, but was quite capable under pressure. 

John left the restaurant before Sherlock, agreeing to go see what he could do about finding something to act as a pick. Sherlock meanwhile had to ensure that they wouldn’t be caught while inside the villa. He knew Moriarty favored lengthy workouts at the gym and could estimate that it would be another hour before he’d finish up. Still, that was cutting it close; a little extra assurance was in order.

Sherlock considered, tapping his mobile against his mouth. If he got Greg involved, that was putting his credibility on the line as well. There was nothing for it, he needed Greg’s help and would certainly explain why if asked. He just hoped Greg wouldn’t ask for the time being.

After another moment weighing his options, he dialed Greg’s number. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, just answered Lestrade’s greeting with, “I need you to keep an eye on Moriarty.”

“Excuse me?” Lestrade said, “and what if I’m busy?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Bring Molly with you, then. At the moment he’s still at the athletic complex with his… crew. By my estimation he’ll be there another hour or so, depending whether he uses the steam room. I need to know when he leaves, the minute he leaves, no later.”

He heard the heavy sigh heaved on Lestrade’s end. “Sherlock-”

“Greg,” Sherlock implored, working up the ability to humble himself. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I _need_ you.”

Another sigh. “Do I want to know?”

“At the moment? No, you don’t want to know. Just make certain that he doesn’t make you.”

“ _Make_ me? What am I, a detective?”

“Just do it,” Sherlock said imploringly and disconnected. 

\---

When they reconvened, John had donned a dark, snug jacket and had his hands shoved deep into the pockets. “I’ve got everything remotely small and sharp I could get my hands on but not sure if it’ll do.”

He produced a bundle: tweezers, a few nail files, a small paring knife and various wires and random small rods, truly an eclectic collection. Sherlock was dubious, and the twist of his lips said so. 

“Alright,” John said, annoyed. “You gave me twenty minutes, it was the best I could do. Couldn’t just run down to that corner shop and pick up a set, you berk.”

Lips twisting in amusement, Sherlock ran his fingers over the instruments and then slid them possessively around John’s wrist. “You’re sure,” he said quietly, meeting John’s eyes with an intense gaze. “Absolutely sure that you want to do this. I can’t guarantee that we’ll come up with anything. I can’t guarantee that you’ll… that we won’t both be tarnished in the end.”

John sniffed and looked out over Sherlock’s shoulder. “Yeah, well, we have to, don’t we? Can’t let him get away with that.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, equally as quiet. “I can’t.”

“ _We_ can’t,” came John’s even voice. “And like you said, I like the excitement, yeah? The danger?”

The grin that slid onto Sherlock’s face felt somehow foreign, it was so wide. “Yes, I did say that.”

“Right, then lead the way, would you?”

Sherlock did as asked without another word, bringing John around the back of the villa using the least conspicuous path, the two of them moving together flawlessly, seamlessly. Their biceps were pressed tightly together as they made their way around the side of the building, and after John ducked around to ensure they were indeed alone, they made their way up the back steps. 

John crouched down and got straight to it, and Sherlock was pleased to find that John trusted Sherlock; he didn’t check that the door wasn’t wired, or that they weren’t being surveilled. He obviously trusted Sherlock at his word.

Tongue peeking out at the corner of his lips, John slipped in what looked to be a straightened paper clip and one of the slimmer nail files. There was a click and a rattle but the lock didn’t give; with a muted curse John tried again with a larger nail file, torquing his hand awkwardly as he tried to get the internal mechanism to give.

Sherlock kept a keen watch, attention divided between his mobile and his surroundings; he did nothing to hurry John along, just waited and trusted that he’d manage to pick the lock. He spared a quick glance to watch John work, his hands nimble and capable in working with the small instruments; distantly, the memory of John’s hands on him threatened to manifest in his mind and Sherlock did his best to push it away. 

It was a long, tense minute before he heard a slight snick and John’s relieved sigh. 

John wrapped up his tools and shoved them down into his pocket. “In, _in_ ,” Sherlock breathed, pressing his palm against John’s lower back and they made their way inside swiftly, closing the door silently behind them. 

The layout was rather open, though there were beams and support columns that looked randomly placed. While Sherlock was busy taking in the interior, John ducked around him. “I’ll sweep the house.”

Sherlock snorted out a quiet laugh, “Spoken like a true army man.”

“Shut up,” John ordered and nudged him in the ribs as he passed. 

Sherlock picked through the kitchen and living area, but found nothing of interest. The rooms were nearly spartan in their neatness and Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder who’d imposed that rule. John appeared a moment later from around back where Sherlock assumed the bedrooms were and gave him a short nod. 

Sherlock made his way back, going through each room meticulously. There were four bedrooms, each clearly being used, though it took him until the very last to find any sign of Moriarty or Moran. There were water glasses on both night stands, a men’s watch on the right hand stand and one on the left as well; so then, Moran and Moriarty were an item. Not surprising, but it went a long way to explaining why Moran was so vehement about keeping a close eye on the other man.

He looked through the drawers and the wardrobe and the cupboard, finding nothing but neatly hung and folded items of clothing. There was an extra pair of ski boots lined against a wall that, after close inspection, turned out to be completely normal. 

As Sherlock was setting the second boot back down on the floor he spotted a large black box beneath the bed. Carefully, he pulled it out and placed it upon the coverlet; it was a tacklebox, the tumbler lock secured. Sherlock sat back on his heels and thought for a moment; he then entered Moriarty’s birthday and tested the lock.

It gave way and Sherlock’s lips curled in a snide smile. Sentiment.

There seemed to be nothing out of place on the top level, just carefully-arranged rows of bolts and screws intended for skis. He did his best not to dislodge any of the items.

Sherlock lifted the tray of ski bolts out of the way to reveal what was beneath, a selection of what looked to be waxes. They weren’t in standard containers; on each cover instead was scrawled writing in what Sherlock could recognize was Japanese. Opening one of the containers, he slid his fingers over the surface of one of the concoctions and noted it was quite a bit airier than any wax he’d used; it didn’t feel necessarily _strange_ , but it didn’t feel quite right. 

Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew his Olympic identification and bank card and scraped off a little sample, sandwiching it between the pieces of plastic; he’d show it to Molly and Greg the first chance he got.

Delicately shifting through the contents, he searched until he could see what was beneath the waxes. Underneath it all was a small, weathered notebook, secured with paperclips and a rubber band. He extracted it carefully and worked it open. 

Sherlock couldn’t make much of the first entries, the scrawl fairly illegible. As he flipped through, however, he came across a page of names, names he knew. There were several members of the European Junior squad as well as several names Sherlock didn’t recognize. The second to last name on the list was Hanzu’s. 

Next to all the names were amounts of money, ranging from five-thousand dollars at the low end to nearly seventy-thousand at the high. At first glance it seemed rather rudimentary; Moran - and likely Moriarty - were selling what was in these jars to the athletes listed. Sherlock momentarily felt let down, thought that this couldn’t have been possibly this simple, but after taking Moran’s obvious lack of intellect into consideration, he wasn’t surprised. Of course the man didn’t have a more secure way of keeping track of his information - he was a neanderthal.

Sherlock took photos of the pertinent pages and the canisters of wax with his mobile and then set off to find John. It had been quiet for some time, and John couldn’t have gotten far. He was just about to close the case back up when his mobile buzzed.

‘Moriarty and co. leaving. Need to know anything else?’

If Moriarty was headed back, they had little time to slip back out, unnoticed. Sherlock placed everything back as he found it and hurried back out into the living area, calling John’s name quietly. John popped his head out from around a corner, eyes wide at the urgency in Sherlock’s tone. 

“Lestrade, they’ve left the complex, if they’re on their way back here they’re-”

But Sherlock stopped as the sound of an engine became increasingly more audible; John shifted toward the window and did a double take. “If they hadn’t taken a fucking delegation-escorted ride, shit.”

“Right, right,” Sherlock swallowed even as his mouth went dry. “Right.” Gaze darting around the room, he looked for somewhere they could hide and spotted a door in an alcove to the right of entertainment system. He was annoyed with himself for not spotting it as soon as they’d gotten inside but was grateful he’d noticed it now. “There, across the room.” 

John pressed his lips together in frustration, but crossed the room with Sherlock in tow; they flung themselves into the cupboard just as the front door rattled and opened. Sherlock stumbled and John fell into the wall, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulder to steady himself.

“Make it more obvious we’re in here!” John whispered roughly, while footsteps and voices filtered through the door. 

“Shut. Up,” Sherlock said back, twisting to hiss it over his shoulder. 

John was startlingly close, hand still gripping his shoulder hard, breath close enough for Sherlock to feel it, warm on his neck. He could just make out John’s profile, lips open, eyes slightly hooded, nostrils flared and breath coming fast.

Sherlock swallowed audibly and shifted backward ever so slightly, until John’s chest was flush with his back. His mind screamed at him to keep it together but for once, his body moved of its own volition, seeking what it wanted. John’s exhale was audible and he felt it paint across his skin, which responded immediately in goosebumps.

John’s other hand came around to grip at Sherlock’s forearm, holding them flush against one another. 

“Sherlock,” John’s voice was incredibly low and rough and it caused a warm pool of desire to settle in Sherlock’s belly. It was inappropriate, it was ill-timed, but Sherlock couldn’t help it. He’d never felt like this before, this alive, this exhilarated, like he was dancing on a razor’s edge. It was different than the elation he felt while on the slopes, this was sharper and sweeter and ringed with a very different sort of danger. “We’re in a cupboard. In your rival’s villa. Trying to find evidence that he’s killed a man. Not the best time for you to be pressing your arse into me, yeah?”

Sherlock had to swallow again, in order to get his tongue to work properly. “Yes, right. Timing.”

“Yeah,” John said and began to pull away, Sherlock straightened, creating as much space between them as was possible in the small enclosure. Sherlock felt the loss instantly before John quickly pulled him back in with a strong arm around his hips, arse to pelvis and nipped delicately at his ear. 

“But _later_ , later I’ve some things in store for you,” and with that John pressed his body flush against the back of the cupboard and left Sherlock to slump into the wall beside him.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hold on, just, just stop. You _broke into Moriarty’s rooms_? Is that what I’m understanding here? And implicating him in, in a murder? Jesus, he’s your biggest competition but...” Lestrade whispered fiercely as he advanced on Sherlock. “Are you out of your damned mind?!”

It was an hour crouching in the cupboard before they heard the entourage stomp back out of the villa, Moran barking about making their reservation on time. Still, they stayed pressed against the back of the enclosure for another ten minutes just to be sure they were gone for good.

“Sherlock,” John whispered once, low and then again louder when Sherlock didn’t budge. “Sherlock, we can move now.”

“Oh yes, yes,” he said and tumbled forward a bit, his hand slipping on the knob before he stepped out into the living room. The sun had shifted behind the clouds and the room was cast in eerie shadow. Sherlock took one more look around before turning back and ensuring that the contents of the cupboard was just as they’d found it.

They slipped out easily, around the back, and were silent as they made their way down the hill, along the alleyways, pressing themselves up against the buildings until they were certain they were far enough from Moriarty’s. When they popped back onto the thoroughfare it was teeming with people and they settled into the flow, winding their way back down to the village before they said another word to one another.

The adrenaline was coursing through Sherlock’s veins and he could see from John’s profile that he was rather amped up as well. They’d just broken into the flat of one of the most famous skiers in the _world_ and no one around them had any idea. Sherlock was pondering over why that made him so invigorated when John giggled, once. “That was… ridiculous, the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done,” John said conspiratorially, even as he grinned up at Sherlock.

One side of Sherlock’s mouth curled up in an amused and pleased smile. “And you invaded Afghanistan.”

“That,” John corrected, glancing at the people around him. “Wasn’t just me.”

The spent a moment smiling at one another before Sherlock pulled his mobile from his pocket and immediately began texting.

“What now?” John asked, eyes bright and clear and focused. Sherlock gave him a look over; he seemed excited, intent, anticipatory. Sherlock was pleased, pleased that he’d been right about John’s thirst for danger, pleased that Sherlock could quench it a bit. Moreover, he found it rather brilliant that John had suspected Moriarty from the start and that he was not only willing but eager to help find proof.

John Watson was a _marvel_.

“Well,” Sherlock began, before realizing that he’d stopped mid-text and finishing off a request to have Lestrade meet them back at Sherlock’s room that evening. Sherlock had no idea what was special about the wax they'd just found, but he had a team of people who might know and those people would need convincing before they'd help. Lestrade's new...thing... with Molly made him perfect for the job - and though Sherlock was reluctant to bring him on, he knew he didn't really have a choice. He'd just have to hope Lestrade wouldn't cock up his process.

“I’ve asked Lestrade to meet us back at my room in four hours.” Sherlock slid his phone back into his pocket and looked off into the distance, thinking.

“And what do we do until then?” John asked; rather saucily, Sherlock thought.

Sherlock smiled down at him, indulgently. “I have my second training run tomorrow. Whatever you have in mind will have to wait. As curious as I am.”

John smiled back innocently and then leaned in, looking out over Sherlock’s right shoulder and growled, “There are so many things I’m going to do to you, you have _no_ idea.”

“Well that’s,” Sherlock tried, blinking blankly at John when he pulled back. “That’s, that’s…”

“Hmmm, yeah,” John murmured smugly, looking everywhere but at Sherlock, and then turned towards the direction of the Olympic Village. “But since that will have to wait... gym?”

“Love to,” Sherlock responded, his fingers passing over his pocket where the wax was sandwiched between his identification card and Barclaycard. He’d find out soon enough what exactly Moriarty was up to.

\---

They parted ways when they reached the gym, agreeing to be back at Sherlock’s suite at the meeting time. Sherlock went through his standard workout, incorporating a bit more cardio than usual. He was keyed up, on edge, suffused with a reckless sense of anticipation and he needed to sweat it out.

It wouldn’t do well to feel this shaken up on the slopes tomorrow.

His workout left him feeling refreshed and invigorated, the endorphins coursing through him pleasantly. He didn’t see John after he’d showered and couldn’t find him in the gym as he was headed out; so he assumed John had returned to the hotel. Sherlock followed suit, taking his time to walk across the plaza and further decompress. He was stopped a few times by fans and it shocked him to note how receptive he was to their admiration - instead of his casually cool demeanor, he found himself asking the names of the people he was signing for. He smiled in a few photographs and even gave the thumbs up in one when asked by a young boy.

When he got back to the hotel, John was waiting for him in the lobby. Sherlock aimed a casual smile at him but John came over and steered him into an empty conference room just off to the side.  
  
“I couldn’t find you when I was leaving the gym. Did you-“

“Moran threatened me,” John cut him off abruptly and Sherlock took a step back, feeling a quick little jab of skepticism. They’d only been separated for three hours; surely the Moriarty contingent hadn’t had enough time to finish their meal and return back to the gym for a workout. Moran would have had to go out of his way to get back to the athletic complex.

John sighed and pressed his fingertips to the corners of his closed eyes. “He might be an idiot but he’s _big_.”

“Exactly what he said, tell me exactly what he said to you,” Sherlock intoned, casting a glance towards the doorway out of habit.

“Not- it wasn’t a direct threat, but he made it seem as though he was aware someone had been in their villa. Which would mean that he went back there before they went to - Christ Sherlock, we could have been caught! You would have been-“  
  
Sherlock interrupted abruptly, with a warm, comforting hand to John’s shoulder. “But we weren’t, John. Now, what did he _say_ to you?”  
  
John cleared his throat and glanced down at his shoes. “That break ins are common in Sochi, that… that it would be a shame if anyone were to get inside of the Marin Suites, _room 503_ and find out what’s been going on in there.”

Sherlock considered; it wasn’t an overt threat, but it was certainly a possibility that Moran knew more than his veiled threat was letting on. He did, after all, know the exact suite in which Sherlock was staying. He bit at his lip and thought; even if Moran had an _idea_ that they’d broken in, Sherlock was certain they’d left no evidence. He was sure there had been no surveillance. There was no proof.

“I’m certain that we left no evidence of our presence; he’s likely just referring to what was printed in the papers about the two of us. He has no concrete proof,” Sherlock said reassuringly. Despite his words though, he kept finding his eyes straying to the doorway, caution winning out. No one had any real evidence that anything was going on between the two of them, but over the past day they really hadn’t done much to hide that they knew one another and in fact had grown very close. “Let’s go upstairs and talk about it, Lestrade should be there.”

John made to follow Sherlock out of the room before the other man turned and stopped him. “Wait five minutes, then follow.” Though John’s face fell a fraction, he accepted Sherlock’s directive and nodded, watching as Sherlock left.  
  
Once inside the elevator, Sherlock bit at his thumbnail and closed his eyes. He felt stress pressing in at all sides, not a particularly good place to be if he was to ski well during his training run tomorrow. Normally, he was able to simply maneuver the stress to a vault in his mind palace, reason it away, deal with it later or forget about it altogether.

But this was different. Yes, his career was on the line, but so was John’s. John’s reputation and good name hung in the balance. If he didn’t play this exactly right, if he didn’t come up with concrete proof, he could ruin John’s life. Sherlock contemplated what exactly that meant – he was positively _terrified_ of letting John down, of hurting him.

Damn it to hell, it had only been a few days.

The lift dinged for his floor and he heaved in a large sigh, resolving to deal with the intricacies of the John situation at a later time. Sherlock stepped off and made it to his room to discover that Lestrade had already gotten inside.  
His scowl was immediate. “How in the world-“

“I’m your coach,” Lestrade grinned at him and held up the coach credentials he’d held onto from years prior. “Walk with confidence and be charming and you can get whatever you want.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shut the door with a bit more effort than necessary. “Spectacular to see the security here is a high priority; John is on his way.”

“Right then, what’s the crisis?” Lestrade was still smiling, oblivious to the dire nature of the situation.

Sherlock paced back and forth in front of the sitting room window. “Moriarty is doctoring athletes’ skis,” he said without preamble, meeting Lestrade’s gaze as the information sunk in. “We found a log book with monetary values and various elite and junior athletes’ names. We found the log in a lock box containing various compounds, all of which appeared to be wax. Moriarty doctored Hanzu’s skis, I’m _sure_ of it. Moriarty caused his death.”

Lestrade stared and stared; he blinked and then he stared some more.

“Lestrade-“

“Hold on, just, just stop. You _broke into Moriarty’s rooms_? Is that what I’m understanding here? And implicating him in, in a murder? Jesus, he’s your biggest competition but...” he whispered fiercely as he advanced on Sherlock. “Are you out of your damned mind?!”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious about Hanzu’s death?” Sherlock spat back, a tad viciously. He advanced on Lestrade a step and threw the full force of his gaze down his nose at the man. “Athletes of our caliber don’t die at events like this. It just. Doesn’t. _Happen_.”

Lestrade pursed his lips and took a step away, backing down. It was then that John appeared, slipping into the room quietly. “Lestrade,” John nodded his head in greeting.

“John,” he returned without taking his eyes off of Sherlock; the tension hung thick in the air.

“Ah,” John said in acknowledgement. “You’ve been caught up to speed on the breaking and entering.”

“Yes!” the coach said, finally perking and turning towards John, impaling him with his glare. “And apparently suspected murder as well!”

John grimaced and shrugged, sitting himself down in a leather desk chair. Lestrade rolled his eyes again and then tossed himself down onto a sofa, turning his hands up in surrender. “Well I’m in it now, aren’t I? Christ you two… I… Sherlock why can’t you just be happy with making it to the – no, no, nevermind. I’m not your coach and you’re not my athlete. I’m not doing it. I’m not talking you into or out of anything. Just, fuck… fill me in on everything you know.”

Sherlock did, with a few interjections by John here and there. Finally, Sherlock pulled out his wallet and separated the cards to allow Lestrade a glimpse of the waxy substance. “I don’t hold out much hope that there’s lab facilities anywhere near the Village that I could get to.”

Lestrade huffed a laugh as he took a small bit of the wax between his fingers. “Even if they did, they’re not going to let you faff about in there. Probably need a Russian passport to get into any facility like that in this country way things are at present.”

Sherlock ceded the point with a frown while Lestrade tested the viscosity between his fingers. “Yeah, this is… can’t really put my finger on it, it’s… doesn’t feel quite right, does it?”

John came forward and took a bit for himself and shrugged. “Can’t really answer that, but it seems pretty obvious from what we found that they’re selling the stuff to people on the circuit. So either it’s an unstable wax which doesn’t make sense if the athletes that are in that book _are_ using it; there would be more accidents, right? More deaths? Or… the obvious connection, blackmail.”

“There’s most certainly blackmail going on, but…” Sherlock said. “Hanzu’s death reeks of intention. Perhaps his wax was replaced with whatever substance Moriarty has.”

“Okay, but even if they were, how would we prove it?” Lestrade asked.

“Outside of testing the chemical makeup, I suppose we start by showing it to Phillip and Molly, see if they can place it or find out if any other athletes are using it. See if they can get us samples of the waxes everyone else is using, or at least the brand. I can compare it with samples that I've collected over the years.” Ski techs had been known to sample the waxes of other athletes, though usually not at the Olympic level. Sherlock knew Molly was quite familiar with many of the other competitors’ tech teams; she could attempt to covertly determine what others were using.

Perhaps that could give them a jumping off point.

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Sherlock quietly for a moment. After a bit, he breathed out noisily through his nose and slid his eyes closed. “Just please don’t let this get in the way of…” He trailed off and then peeled his eyes open to stare contemplatively at Sherlock. “Tell me,” he murmured calmly. “Honestly, what’s more important to you? Solving this or winning?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “What difference does it make?”

“It makes all of the difference Sherlock, all of the difference. If you get implicated in this somehow, if you cock this up, your career is over. Even if you’re to retire, every single event you’ve ever medalled in will be scrutinized. And you _know_ that, so why are you _doing_ it?”

John flicked his gaze back and forth between the two men as he shifted nervously to the front of his seat, hands clasped tightly in front of his mouth.

Sherlock’s nostrils flared but he said nothing, just narrowed his eyes and stared back.

“And,” Lestrade continued, now sitting up straight with his hands against his knees. “You’re not the only one involved now, you’ve got John here – who by the way, is completely mad as is if he’s associating with you.” The latter was served with a twist of mouth but a soft gaze; Lestrade was implying that what they’d found together was something he approved of, but also not something to treat lightly. “He’s all messed up in this and if things go south-“

“Right, due respect Greg but I can take care of myself. I think I’ve made that rather clear, yeah?” John was standing now, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “I’m in this, and I want to be in this. Just so everything is plain.”

Sherlock turned to look at him and couldn’t help but smile at the resolve he saw in John’s frame, the fire and determination in his gaze. A hot flare of attraction flared in his stomach and his chest grew hot and constricted as he acknowledged the unabashed affection he felt. “Well,” he returned his attention to his ex-coach. “Is all of that settled, then?”

Lestrade shook his head in dejection and fell back into the sofa. “Just, I’ll only say this once, alright? You’re not the most terrible person I’ve ever worked with and I think you’re a pretty alright bloke so don’t… just don’t fuck all of this up.”

“Your concern is noted. Now, I’ll need you tomorrow morning. I can’t imagine I can get Molly to go along with all of this so easily. I’d begin working on your wheedling voice now.”

“Hey now hang on a minute! You’re not going to use me to lie to Molly, I’m not-“

“I didn’t say a thing about lying, did I?” Sherlock asked, innocently.

“You did not,” John said, a trace of smile in his lilt.

Sherlock smiled sweetly down at Lestrade. “Just… sugar coat it. We can’t be having her in hysterics because we’ve asked her to compromise her obviously iron-clad morality.”

“God damn it, you’re an arsehole,” Lestrade ground out. “You really are.”

Sherlock’s gaze suddenly went stormy again. “We’re talking about people being _murdered_ here Lestrade, I couldn’t care less whether you think me an arsehole or not.”

There was another brief moment where the atmosphere in the room shifted from serious to heated, but then John stepped in between Lestrade and Sherlock and placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Right, listen. We’re all rather tense now, yeah? I think a nice dinner and a full night’s sleep will do us all a world of good.”

“Kindly,” Sherlock growled, without looking at John, “do not mother me.”

“Oi!” John barked and slapped Sherlock’s pectoral with the back of his hand. “Watch it. I’m helping you, you colossal dick.”

Another beat of silence settled and then Lestrade barked out a singular cough of a laugh which devolved into a spiral of giddy laughter that John joined in on. Sherlock’s mouth cracked into a half-smile as Lestrade stood and clapped his palms over his thighs. “Right, dinner, sleep. I think John’s right.”

John walked Lestrade towards the door, clapped a hand on his back as Lestrade opened it.

“We’ll see you tomorrow at Khutor,” John said and took Lestrade’s proffered hand when he turned back. They shook once, firmly.

Lestrade eyed Sherlock once more and after a short, curt nod, made his way out of the room. John shifted back into the sitting room and looked Sherlock slowly up and down. “You look knackered.”

“Rude,” Sherlock murmured back. “But so do you.”

“Yeah,” John ran a hand through his short hair, from the base of his head to the front and then back again. “Yeah, I am.”

Sherlock stared at John for a long beat and then took a single step forward. “Stay tonight. Please just… sleep here. With me.”

John’s mouth twisted in conflict. “I don’t know that that’s such a good idea, Sherlock.”

“Just sleep,” Sherlock reassured, stepping right up to John’s solid frame and placing a warm palm on his shoulder. “That’s all,” and then he leaned his forehead against John’s in a startlingly intimate gesture.

John’s eyes blinked closed and all of the hesitation drained from his bones. “Let me just go get my things and then we can order in some room service.”

\---

They awoke early the next day and John curled himself tightly around Sherlock’s body for long minutes. John pressed his lips to the back of Sherlock’s neck and inhaled, pulling away after leaving a kiss. “Time to get up.”

Snuffling, Sherlock turned over to face him, frowning.

“I’ll be at the finish with the medics, as usual,” John said around an affectionate smile. 

Sherlock took the opportunity to stretch lethargically, squirming in John’s arms, the sheet slipping low on his hips. “Mmm, alright.”

John looked his fill and then got out of bed with a grumble of displeasure. After a moment, he returned to swat Sherlock’s arse playfully; he bit his lip, stood back and just gazed at Sherlock’s lithe form beneath the sheets. “Just focus. We can deal with this Moriarty business when you’ve completed your run.”

Sherlock watched as John shrugged into his jeans and then glanced down at the bed once more, longingly. “I hope when this is all over...” John began and stopped short, and then stood straight, composing himself.

Sherlock’s breath caught and his mouth parched; his heart racing out of control. He would swear that John could hear it from where he stood. “When all this is over, what?” Sherlock asked, voice still sleep-rough.

“I don’t… we’ll get to that bit when we come to it.” He leaned over and petted his hand twice through Sherlock’s curls before placing a kiss on his forehead. “Ski well. Have Molly or Phil check over your equipment _closely_ for Christ’s sake. If Moriarty _is_ up to what we think he is…”

John trailed off and Sherlock understood. He watched on as John tied his shoe and smoothed down the wrinkles in his trousers. “Oh, and have some egg whites for breakfast.”

And then John was gone, leaving Sherlock alone in the large bed.

\---

Sherlock did as told and had a large breakfast before setting out with his team for the peak of Rosa Khutor. There was a rather tense atmosphere in the tram on the way up the mountain, the conversation sparse and terse. Everyone was still feeling the effects of Hanzu’s death and wondering what had possibly gone wrong.

Taking a glance around, Sherlock noted that Molly and Lestrade weren’t with them and he could only hope that they were already at the peak waiting. Phillip sat in a corner of their tram staring out the window at the powder covering the run, caught in his thoughts. Sherlock felt a swell of annoyance rise in him, and stood suddenly amongst his techs.

“If you could all just perk up a bit that would be grand,” he said. “This is my last Olympics and… and as such I feel it necessary to make known that… you’ve all been invaluable to me. So, please, if you could focus on the task at hand now, as you always have, and not the dire circumstances that one of our own has suffered that would be…”

His team blinked up at him in quiet astonishment.

“Good,” he finished and sat down heavily, crossing his arms and staring out the window.

There was silence in the tram for a time before one of the male techs broke the silence, “And it’s been a fucking amazing time working with you, Sherlock.”

There were tittered of agreement before the same tech continued on. “You’re a bit of a mad bastard and sometimes it seems you’ve got a death wish but yeah, yeah, it’s been a fucking ball.”

Sherlock didn’t turn back towards his group, but he did allow his face to relax and his eyes to slip closed as the weight of the praise seeped in. Eventually he tipped so that his left temple rested against the cool glass of the cabin and he didn’t open his eyes until the tram reached the terminal destination.

It was similarly quiet and anxious at the starting line as Sherlock wound his way through the other competitors to the hut. Inside, coaches spoke in low tones with their athletes and techs bent low over skis they were waxing. Sherlock noticed Lestrade in his periphery and caught the man’s one curt nod before he turned back to speaking with a member of the Swedish delegation.

Lestrade’s affirmative confirmation caused much of the tension to drain from Sherlock’s body and he found himself excited as he made his way over to where Philip had laid out his skis. They were gleaming in the sunshine, the man slicking a cloth over the surface one final time. “One final check of all of the equipment, please,” Sherlock directed.

Phillip gave him a confused look but did as told, examining all of the bolts and fastenings; he pulled away and nodded at Sherlock, confirming everything was all set. Sherlock frowned and kept his eyes on his skis, “And you’re sure you stripped them both down before you waxed?”

“All the way down, this is all fresh,” Phillip confirmed. “With the triple compound from my kit, just like you asked. You’re set to go boss.” With that, he leaned down and ran a cloth once more along the upper portion of Sherlock’s skis. 

The motion soothed him and Sherlock finally found his mind settling and clearing, his focus primed.

“Though Hoslinger got his hands on a pair of the demos. Nearly the exact same model, the bastard,” Phillip mentioned, finally standing up. “Must have cost him a pretty penny too; they assured me you’d be the only athlete they’d be trusting them to.”

Sherlock’s lips formed a thin line, but he refused to let the news affect him; he’d only just managed to center himself. A pair of skis could be top of the line, perfect even, but it all depended on the athlete who wore them. If Hoslinger hadn’t used them before, he wasn’t likely to perform well with them now.

“That is of no consequence to me,” Sherlock said, eyes still on the skis.

Phillip readied them in front of the bench they’d designated to be Sherlock’s and he took a step towards Sherlock. “Molly’s spoken with me, I’ve managed to get a look at Hoffstater, Mudchen and Osrchkov but… nothing out of the ordinary. Just the same compounds they’ve been using all along.”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed to Phillip’s before he took a glance around the hut, assuring himself that no one had overheard. “Good,” he said without turning back. “Do keep an eye out.”

“Will do,” the tech reassured, and with the assistance of the rest of his team got Sherlock securely into his equipment. He exchanged a glance with Molly only once; her mouth was set in a severe thin line and she had dark circles under her eyes. Lestrade must have spoken to her before they’d gone to bed.

Sherlock rerouted his train of thought, forcing himself to review what he knew of the course, how the sun might affect his run, what the weather was like. The noise around him became a distant murmur as he settled into his prerace calm. Moriarty would ski with the second wave of athletes and as such, Sherlock didn’t have to be on high alert. He could focus on this run single-mindedly. 

Sherlock was fifth on the docket, and he remained calm and still while he watched the athletes prior to him explode through the starting gate and disappear from view. Members of his team wished him well, but they were all white noise to him, the only sound cutting through was the intercom announcing he was on deck.

Getting to his feet, Sherlock moved to the gate and readied himself, tugging at his gloves one last time before getting into starting position. He secured his goggles over his eyes and shifted his thighs and buttocks down and back. 

When he burst through the starting gate everything went startlingly, crystal clear. He hit every turn as he had the time before but with a shade more precision, rounding on the final turn knowing he’d picked up a precious bit of speed coming off of the third jump. Sherlock felt the familiar thrum of adrenaline in his veins and grinned, relishing the speed, the air whipping past him. He was primed, nearly perfect, at the top of his game as he came racing down the final stretch.

He could very nearly taste the sweetness of victory as his skis rocketed him past the spectators.

Crossing the finish line, he caught sight of his time and tossed his arms and poles up in the air, grinning towards the sky. It was a run he’d been hoping for, technically flawless; Sherlock was over the moon. He was so exhilarated that when he tore off his helmet he let out a boisterous whoop and turned towards the crowd before bowing his body backward and letting out another loud exclamation of, “Yes!”

Cameras descended on him, crowding around him as the official called out the confirmed time, securing Sherlock as the leader going into the finals.

A blonde reporter with a microphone bearing the logo for NBC Sports sidled up to him and, once sure they had the airtime, addressed Sherlock. “I’m here with a _grinning_ Sherlock Holmes - usually so composed when he’s finished a race - who just managed to beat his first training run by another three-tenths of a second. Sherlock, you’re the front runner going into this final, and on a day when temperature on the mountain are much warmer than normal! Tell me, how did you prepare for Rosa Khutor this time?”

Sherlock provided the reporter with a quick explanation of his first run, most of it nonsense; he wanted to finish with the press so he could share his joy with his team, with _John_. John, who he was _sure_ was impressed with him; perhaps he could see about getting him to do some of those _things_ he’d mentioned when they got back to the hotel…

Just as he was in the athlete’s staging area removing his skis, he heard the crowd let out a collective gasp. Unable to see the large screen from where he was seated, he got up and rounded the bleachers. People had their heads in their heads, expressions ones of horror and disbelief.

As he sought out an official to find out what the commotion was about, John rounded the corner, bounding over to him. He was pink in the face and very obviously out of breath. “Fuck,” he began and sucked in a breath. “Fuck, Sherlock, Holsinger lost control on the Russian Trampoline. He’s out; broke his arm and tore his right ACL.”

Sherlock felt this mind go blank and he stared back up at the mountain he’d just conquered. “He…”

“What?” John inhaled again, deeply.

“Phillip,” Sherlock turned to John, his expression completely void of any emotion. “He said Holsinger was just provided with the same demo skis that I was.”

“You think-” John began.

“I think that _precisely_ ,” Sherlock confirmed gravely, knowing that he and John were on the same page. Moriarty had gotten to Holsinger’s skis thinking that they were Sherlock’s, of course he had. 

The intercom blared to life interrupting the tense silence that had fallen between them, announcing a temporary halt to the Group A run. “He’s out for you,” John murmured, allowing his hand to wrap around Sherlock’s elbow.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, not bothering to worry about John touching him so publicly. He had much larger matters to ponder over. “Yes he is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Erin](thescienceofobsession.tumblr.com) went to town on this for me and for that I am super duper grateful. And [astudyinrose](astudyinrose.tumblr.com) sat with my in a Peet's Coffee in downtown Denver and pretty much handed me my plot, because she's awesome and great and all other adjectives that mean fabulous.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re not going to get away with this,” John grunted. 
> 
> “Oh,” Moriarty sighed, pressing his hands together and bringing them to his mouth. “But I am. You two, the pair of you, you made it so _easy_.”

Lestrade had to head the reporters off at the pass so that Sherlock was able to make it off the course and away from the cameras. After shrugging efficiently and wordlessly out of his gear, he hurriedly boarded a tram back down to the Olympic Village alone, leaving John to return to the medic team to try to find out anything else he possibly could about Holsinger’s injury. 

It couldn’t be confirmed, he didn’t have conclusive proof, but it was obvious--knowing what they now knew--that Moriarty had meant to doctor Sherlock’s skis. It was obvious that Moriarty had it out for Sherlock from the beginning and it seemed as though he would stop at nothing to destroy him. 

Their rivalry was decades old, but Sherlock had always treated it as a distant thing, something that was acknowledged in the press and existed, but never really affected him. He would admit to himself--though he wasn’t proud of it--that trading barbs with Moriarty via interviews in print and on television was childish but somehow also thrilling; he didn’t think, however, that their pettiness in the media and on the slopes would translate to _actual_ murder.

Of course he wouldn’t think that, they were _skiers_ , not spies, not shady government officials. Nothing this nefarious had happened in their world, ever. That it was happening now and on an international screen was absolute insanity; it was insanity that Moriarty believed he could get away with it in the first place. The thought caused a sizzle of rage to race down Sherlock’s spine and he found himself bounding from the tram with renewed vigor.

Sherlock slinked carefully towards the hotel, ducking down the back alleys in order to avoid the press who were lurking about and looking for a soundbite.

He was forced to silence his mobile after the fifth call from Molly. He needed to _think_ , needed to devise some way to both out Moriarty and ensure that it didn’t affect his own performance on the slopes. His fingers threaded through the hair at the sides of his head and he tugged as he slumped back against a brick wall, waiting for the many passersby to dissipate. 

Sherlock lingered there against the wall for a long time, doing his best to wrangle his thoughts into some coherency. He unbuttoned his parka and let the cool air whip against his body in an attempt to keep him present and focused; Sherlock struggled to settle his mind enough to be able to lay out the whole of the problem but found he was so rattled that he wasn’t able to get to a place where he could even begin to think about Moriarty objectively. 

And that, too, enraged him and he sent a curled fist flying back into the brick. This was exactly what Moriarty wanted, for Sherlock to be off of his game and therefore more liable to make an error in the final. Pressing his teeth together, Sherlock swallowed against the bile that had begun to rise and levered himself away from the wall, setting off once more with determined steps towards his hotel. He felt unhinged and adrift, full of tense energy, and he opted to take the steps up to his room rather than wait for the elevator. He bounded up all five flights, not bothering to pause as he burst through the door to the floor.

“There you are!” came the breathless exclamation as John turned to face him from where he stood in front of Sherlock’s room. “They’ve postponed the last of the skiers, they’re going over the course but--Jesus,” John panted, his fist clenching and unclenching at his sides. “They didn’t let me anywhere near him. It’s a media frenzy right now! And after Hanzu, they locked it down fast.” He swallowed and said, “I worried when you weren’t here, I didn’t know--”

“Avoiding the press,” Sherlock returned and managed to unlock the door to his room, glancing carefully down the hallway before he pushed it open and slipped inside. John followed him in, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. 

Once the door closed, John immediately began to speak. “So what, what do we do? This is, Sherlock this is getting out of hand. He wanted to kill you, that could have been you! That _should_ have been you, if there’s--”

But Sherlock surged forward and cut John abruptly off, their mouths crashing together. After a moment, he pulled back, leaving John wide-eyed and gaping, Sherlock curled a palm around the back of John’s neck and brought their foreheads together. “I know. I know, just… shut up. I can’t think, I need to think...”

John frowned but did as asked until Sherlock began babbling to himself, fingers to his temples and pressing in. “There has to be something, _something_...” Sherlock whispered vehemently into the air between them.

“You know we have to go to the IOC with this,” John said carefully and quietly, bringing a palm up to slide carefully over Sherlock’s bicep. “There’s too much at stake. You’re in the final and you won’t be focusing on your race, you won’t be _able_ to, if you’re worried about this.”

“How, John? We have no tangible proof! I can’t bring an accusation of this magnitude forward _myself_. I’ve no standing with the delegation, no official coach! This isn’t something I can just saunter in with!”

John pondered that and stepped back from Sherlock, bottom lip caught between his teeth as he paced the room aimlessly. Sherlock slunk over to the sofa and tossed himself out on it, his body suddenly making him aware that he’d just put it through enormous physical exertion; he groaned and stretched, attempting to find a comfortable position. 

A moment later, John was next to him on the sofa, asking him to budge up and pulling Sherlock’s legs across his own thighs. His brow furrowed though he said nothing and after pausing briefly to crack his knuckles, John brought his hands to Sherlock’s calves, pushed up his track trousers and began to apply pressure.

“Oh,” Sherlock sighed in equal parts pleasure and surprise as the muscles nearly immediately began to unwind. 

“Now relax and think,” John urged and continued his massage, keeping his touch firm and therapeutic. He worked off Sherlock’s trainers and dropped them to the floor. Sherlock peeked one eye open--a bit stunned to notice that he’d let them close to begin with--and watched John’s face as he began pressing into the arch of his left foot. 

A groan escaped him and Sherlock melted back into the couch, just catching the edge of a smug smile curling up on John’s face as his eyes slipped closed once more. For a long while there was nothing but the soft sounds John drew from him with his capable hands and the whisper of flesh on flesh.

He distantly noticed that the buzzing in his head had quieted, but now he was too busy fending off the siren call of slumber to think properly about the issues at hand. But he couldn’t ask for John to stop; he was making Sherlock feel absolutely at ease. He had moved onto Sherlock’s hands and wrists when he quietly murmured, “Let’s bring Greg in on this.”

“John--” Sherlock slurred, peeled his eyes open and struggled up onto his elbows, feeling drugged by lethargy.

“Listen, he’s already waist deep, it certainly can’t hurt, and since he already knows what’s going on he _must_ think something is up with today’s injury. We should get out in front of it, get him here before he comes to us.” John’s hands paused and then curled around Sherlock’s, lacing their fingers together.

Sherlock turned the idea over in his head for a few long beats before he shrugged and settled back against a throw pillow. He glances down at their knuckles slotted alongside one another and sighed in concession. “He isn’t a complete moron; you’re likely correct.”

“Good.” John released a loud breath. “Now should I phone him or would you like to?”

\---

Sherlock fell asleep for a short time, body slanting at all angles into the sofa, while John made the call. The sun was just slipping behind the mountains when a light knock at the door roused Sherlock, but John was at the door and allowing Greg in before he’d even properly woken, their chatter sounding far away, underwater.

“You could answer your bloody phone,” Greg said when he’d entered, hands on hips. “The press? They’re going nuts. This insanity--all the injuries, the death!--it doesn’t happen, and the way you took off after the race? It doesn’t look good.”

Sherlock stretched and ran a hand through his hair, gathering himself quickly together. “John called you, I assume.”

“I--yes, he did. But Sherlock, the reporters were asking _me_ questions. They wouldn’t take the excuse of ‘not your coach,’ they’re insinuating things, and if we don’t shut the rumors down right now--”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed. “What rumors?”

“That you have something to do with this!” Greg bit out, voice pinched. John sighed and their gazes locked across the room. “I suppose I’m not surprised that this happened, and Moriarty is likely feeding this rumor in his own way...”

“No doubt,” John grumbled.

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face and watched as Greg sank down into a chair. “John has convinced me that we need to take this to the IOC, go through the proper channels. If this blows up in our face, we’ll have our bases covered.”

Lestrade’s brow perked, obviously shocked at Sherlock’s suggestion that they play even remotely by the book. “John’s a bloody good influence on you, then.” He nodded his appreciation to John, who rolled his eyes. 

Sherlock sighed, “Right, we all owe a great deal to John, now, back to the issue at hand? We can’t lodge an official complaint, we’ve no concrete evidence aside from the wax--”

“And the fact that Moriarty has acted like a massive cock to you,” John added wryly. “In front of other competitors.”

“Athletes being snarky with one another is hardly evidence to go on,” Sherlock frowned. “Though I think we’re all in agreement that he’s behind all of this…”

Both John and Greg nodded.

“I do know Elena Piscante,” Greg said after a time, crossing his arms over his chest. “She sits on the Executive Board,” Greg fell silent for a moment, head bobbing back and forth as he considered. “I suppose if we knew anyone on the Ethics Commission that would be best but-”

“Better to go with someone you have a personal relationship with,” Sherlock said.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Would be helpful if you’d fostered _any_ sort of relationships with _anyone_ associated with the Olympics. Shit, Sherlock, you know this might be moot; you don’t exactly have the most stellar of reputations, most people think you’re a right arsehole!”

“They’re quite right,” Sherlock said. “And there’s nothing to be done about that. Now, are you going to attempt to help us or are you going to continue to insult me for my lack of people skills?”

“It’s not a lack of people skills,” Lestrade mumbled under his breath, and paced once across the room in a meandering line, shaking his head while his arms were still crossed over his chest. He dragged his hands down over his face. “You’re just a dick.”

“Greg,” John tried, patiently. “We’re working with limited time here. Are you going to help us or do we need to mobilize on an entirely new plan?”

Greg’s lips twisted into a thoughtful purse. “Well, I erm, I mean, I can try it’s just that she and I--”

“Oh god, tell me that you didn’t have relations with someone in the IOC!” Sherlock shouted, rising and stalking towards Greg. “Why is it such an impossible notion that you keep it in your pants?!”

“Oi! You’re one to talk!” he shouted back, more amused than perturbed.

John chuckled without sound and uncrossed his arms, walking over to where Sherlock stood and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Alright, that’s enough, someone’s cranky after their nap,” he poked. “So that’s a yes? You’ll bring this to your contact?”

“Don’t know if she’ll be of much help, but I can try, of course, yeah.”

Sherlock felt the hand that was at his shoulder pull away and after a moment, it rested on his waist. “Great, thank you Greg,” John said with sincerity.

John pinched Sherlock in the side, prompting him to reply, “Yes, Greg. Thank you.”

\---

John returned to his room to shower and change, knowing that he would be missed on the slopes. Even with the rest of the racing postponed for the day, he and Sherlock both agreed that his absence would be conspicuous and so after a quick, sweet kiss, he headed back to Rosa Khutor.

Sherlock, for his part, decided a shower would be in order as well and after sorting himself and donning comfortable sweats, he unearthed the sample of wax he’d taken from Moriarty’s tackle box. Setting up at the table, he laid out the waxes he used, waxes that were popular amongst other athletes and the various types he’d collected over the years. There was no way to get a definitive breakdown of the substances and compare them, but he could compare texture and viscosity. 

He smeared each on the plexiglass that served as the room’s chair rail and took various measurements that he knew were likely wholly inaccurate, if only for something to _do_. As he suspected, there was no real discernible difference between the sample he’d taken from Moriarty’s rooms and the other waxes he had on hand. If only he had access to a lab, then he might be able to make some actual progress. 

He was in the process of running his hands through his hair and tugging painfully when his mobile lit up. Sherlock extracted one hand from his mess of curls and held up the screen, noting that the number was one he didn’t recognize and that the message appeared to be empty. 

Squinting in suspicion, he unlocked his device and scrolled down to the end of what appeared to be a blank text.

At the bottom was a single, stark,

Sherlock didn’t hesitate, didn’t for one moment doubt who the mocking little smiley was from. He growled aloud and brought the edge of his mobile to his lips while he sussed out what to do. He was becoming increasingly restless, waiting in his room for word from either Greg or John. 

His feet bounced against the floor and he began tapping his phone case against his lips. Sherlock couldn’t just sit in his room and wallow; he could try to speak with the other skiers, somehow wrangle out of them any information they had. But they were surrounded by their teams, and he didn’t speak with any of them to begin with; that would be suspicious. He groaned and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, conceding that getting out of his room would at least be good for the cabin fever that was encroaching. 

He flung off his sweats and pulled on clean work out gear, knowing he would find at least a bit of solace in the gym. Slinging a bag with a towel and water bottle over his shoulder, Sherlock flung open the door and went to charge out of the room but was stopped by a large hand pressing forcefully into the front of his chest.

Moran--hulking, stupid Sebastian Moran--was pushing him back into his room and pulling up behind that meaty form behind him was Jim Moriarty. He gave Sherlock the obvious once over as they forced their way into his room and then tsk-tsked. “Oh, honey. You should really dress appropriately when you’re having guests over.”

Sherlock fought it but was walked back until his knees his the edge of the desk chair and he collapsed into it, immediately springing back to his feet, fight or flight response engaged. He got one, solid punch into Moran’s ribs before he was clocked across the face by the back of a hand.

Just as he was losing consciousness, Moriarty's visage swam across his field of vision. “I thought I’d given you enough warning to prepare yourself.”

Sherlock’s world went black.

\---

When he came to, it was with a splitting headache, though thankfully he could immediately place where he was. His first instinct was to move, but he found that his hands had been tied behind his back and each of his feet were secured to a spoke of the rolling desk chair. He fidgeted, trying to move in the chair, and that predictably got his captors’ attention. Sherlock slid in increments across the floor, the wheels squeaking at he did.

Moriarty broke into an amused smile and Moran barked out a single, high laugh. “Dear, please don’t strain yourself,” Moriarty said, mock worried. “Those chairs topple over _so_ easily.”

Sherlock grunted and attempted to move again, but only succeeded in sliding an inch towards the sofa. Sweat broke out on his brow and his muscles strained against his bonds; he fought the instinct to thrash or to panic and instead sat back in the chair, spine straight.

He contemplated what to do.

Moriarty and Moran fell back into whispering at one another and Sherlock craned his neck around to glance at the room, seeing if there was anything he could possibly use to his advantage. To his left was the bathroom and the hallway to the bedroom and to his right--

His stomach plummeted immediately as he caught sight of John, tied at the feet and hands but also around the middle in a stationary chair. His chin rested against his chest, a small line of blood running from his temple to his jaw had already begun to dry and crust. That meant that he’d been out for awhile at least, and that knowledge nearly undid Sherlock’s fragile composure.

Sherlock’s vision wobbled as he tried to assess whether John was breathing; it was dark in the room and he still wore his bulky ski parka so Sherlock had to concentrate all of his efforts to gauge whether John was drawing breath. He seemed fragile and small in the chair, his skin lighted by shadows; Sherlock wanted nothing more than to reach out and touch him, feel John’s skin warm beneath his fingertips. 

A flood of relief coursed through him when he saw the minute rise and fall of John’s chest and he slumped down in his chair with the force of it. “Oh,” Moriarty said offhandedly, noticing the movement. “We picked up your boyfriend. _Obviously_. Can’t have him fapping about.”

“All of this,” He licked his lips and leveled a glare at Moriarty. “To win?” 

Moriarty took a step towards Sherlock and bent down, at eye level with him. “No, no no no. Not just to win; the money of course has _everything_ to do with it.” He served Sherlock with a toothy, terrifying grin. Sherlock glared back, even as he heard a low groan from across the room as John came to; he didn’t waiver, not for a moment, didn’t give into the temptation.

“Ah, good, he’s come around.” Moriarty snapped his fingers over at Moran, still keeping his gaze focused on Sherlock’s. “Let’s put them together, huh? All nice and cozy. You two _lovebirds_...”

Moran did as bid, tipping John’s chair back and dragging him over to the center of the room where Sherlock was. Moriarty gave the rolling chair a little shove and sent Sherlock into John’s side, their biceps cushioning the blow against one another. 

“Now! That’s better! Isn’t it?” 

To his left, John was rolling his head on his shoulders, trying to get his bearings. “Christ,” he mumbled eventually. “You’re mad, the both of you.”

Moriarty considered, levering his head back and forth. “Oh not mad, no. No, just opportunistic, but then aren’t we all. It was a happy accident when my people stumbled on this new compound! Couldn’t get it sanctioned but then… I’m am ever resourceful, don’t you think?”

So Moriarty _had_ developed the wax himself, had even attempted to sell it legally. Money, Sherlock realized, profit, was a vicious motivator but Moriarty wanted something more. The pieces all slotted into place: Moriarty setting up a network of athletes to sell his product across the globe. His intentions to win the downhill and do away with his competition; he would have the fame and the money and control an illegal operation that spanned several continents, an international web of criminals.

No, this wasn’t just about money, this was about _power_.

“All of these years, you’ve been developing it, taking athletes out one by one,” Sherlock ventured. 

Moriarty’s eye roll was spectacularly dramatic. “Oh you _simpleton_ , it wasn’t as nefarious as you think. I am talented, I’m better than _you_. No, no. They found out,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders, like a throwaway. 

“About the wax.”

“Oh the wax and--”

“The money, the bribes.”

“Oh, yes, all of that too.” Moriarty waved his hand through the air as though the bribery was of no consequence. “Illicit substances do tend to fetch a lot of money on the black market. Imagine my _glee_ when I discovered what I could sell the compound for… and what people would _do_ for it! It really is quite something, a bit unstable sure but… ”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the _unstable_ comment.

“It does wonders if you know what to do with it, it really does. But you have to _know_ it’s there, know how to ski while you’re using it or… oopsie daisy!”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed further. “Cody Jackson, the World Cup…”

“That!” Moriarty perked, almost skipping, stabbing a finger in Sherlock’s direction. “Was all Hanzu’s doing. _He_ wanted to be faster but, well, I had to be compensated somehow. I’d _thought_ that Jackson’s presence was what was keeping me from the podium and I could take out two birds with one stone, but I suppose I shouldn’t have underestimated the old dog Sherlock Holmes!” Moriarty mocked, continuing on. “Hanzu wanted the wax and in return he would apply it to Jackson’s skis. If Jackson didn’t know it was on his skis, well, it’s a remarkable compound that does take some getting used to, _very_ particular. I thought Hanzu had time to work with it but… anywho, Jackson crashed blah, blah, blah, you took the gold we all know how the story goes!”

Moriarty’s voice slowly notched up in anger, the tone becoming shrill. “Because I hadn’t accounted for you!”

“It’s all a bit petty.” Sherlock aimed for nonchalant instead of furious. “Killing me just to win gold.”

“Kill you? Oh no, I’d no intention of killing you, you weren’t important enough for that. No, I just wanted to get you out of the way. Fractured femur would have been just fine with me!” Moriarty shrugged, hands in pockets and he rocked up onto the balls of his feet. “But you’ve been sticking that aristocratic nose where it doesn’t belong. You and your pet here and frankly… I’m over it.”

Moran grinned and pulled his hands from his own pockets, cracking the knuckles audibly. It was a paltry intimidation tactic and Sherlock relayed as much, his eyes going glassy and bored. “I’m so sorry that attempting to prove attempted murder is so _boring_ to you.”

“It wouldn’t be boring if you weren’t so appallingly _bad_ at it,” came the accusation. “It still doesn’t make sense to me, you were obviously in my rooms. Why you didn’t take the ledger then and there is so far beyond me.”

John fidgeted at his side and Sherlock set his jaw, said nothing. “You’re not going to get away with this,” John grunted as he struggled hopelessly against his bonds. 

“Oh,” Moriarty sighed, pressing his hands together and bringing them to his mouth. “But I am. You two, the pair of you, you made it so _easy_.”

John, at his side, said nothing, but Sherlock felt his right hand curling into a fist between them. Sherlock gave the slightest hint of pressure back.

“Shacking up,” Moriarty ridiculed, twirling in the center of the room. “Being so obvious about it all, really, Sherlock. In a place where this sort of thing,” he whistled and darted his finger between the two of them, “is really, _really_ frowned upon.”

Sherlock pressed his teeth together so hard that his vision went nearly white with the force of it. He knew it, knew it from the outset, that getting involved with John was dangerous. Now their dalliance had put John in direct line of that danger, something that gnashed in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach; if John was harmed due to Sherlock’s weakness, he’d never forgive himself. 

Apparently Sherlock’s expression wasn’t schooled to the cool mask he’d thought because Moriarty looked into his eyes and broke into delighted giggles. “Oh you poor man, have it bad for this little fellow,” and then Moriarty touched John, ruffled his hair even as John tried to torque away and Sherlock could no long tether the rage that was coiled at the base of his spine.

“Do not,” Sherlock growled, low and dangerous, straining forward and nearly tipping the chair, “touch him.”

Moriarty's upper lip twisted and he stood back as though placated, and then suddenly lashed out, bringing his palm up in a hard slap across John’s cheek. 

“Fuck,” John swore and then turned his head to the side, spitting out a wad of blood; he worked his jaw from side to side and then resumed glaring at Moriarty. 

“What--” Sherlock’s voice audibly shook; he felt remarkably on the edge of breaking. 

He cursed himself internally for letting it get this far, for letting himself care as much about John as he did, and in such a short amount of time. He was stupid, he was foolish, this was all his fault, and it was up to him to get them out of the predicament. “Do you want?” he lamely finished. 

“Well!” Moriarty slapped his hands down on Sherlock’s knees, hard. “What I want, is to do away with the both of you. No one will question what the motive was when they find you,” he smiled serenely. “Not with the nonsense that’s been smeared all over the tabloids.”

“You can’t-”

“Not that _I_ agree with it of course, but it does make all of this a bit more believable. So! I’m going to kill you-oh, no, wait. I’m sorry, _Seb_ here will kill you, because he’s so very good at that.” Moriarty looked over his shoulder and gave Moran a smile and a thumbs up. “And I… will go and ski for the gold.”

Sherlock swallowed audibly and couldn’t think of a thing to say; he felt hollowed out and cold, as though there was static pressing him on all side. His mind raced into overdrive, attempting to think of a way out of all of this. 

“Oh, listen to me,” Moriarty cut in once more. “Wrapping it all up like I’m a villain in a bad movie. Do excuse me, I can admit it, I’m a _bit_ of a show off.” He stood back and looked as though he was admiring the picture that Sherlock and John presented and then he patted Moran twice on the arm. “Have at them, but be sure to tidy yourself up before leaving. No undue attention!”

And with that, Moriarty--whistling to himself--disappeared from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my thanks to Erin and Allison for being all "Oh hey, you writing that? You writing it? Oh hey, how's Uphill coming?" and then still reading it over for me, you know, months later.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You son of a bitch, you’re not going to get away with this.”
> 
> Moran just grinned predatorily down at John. “Well, we haven’t been caught yet. Jim is very good, very… thorough. And I’m good at, well--you already know what I’m good at.”

“Well,” Moran cracked his knuckles in the cup of his palm and then settled his hands on his hips with a heave of a sigh. “Just the three of us.”

It was an obvious statement, meant to intimidate, and although Sherlock realized that as fact, the words still sent a shiver of fright racing down his spine. To his right, John turned his head and spit out another wad of blood, surging forward against his bonds fruitlessly, grunting all the while. His words spilled out of him in hot little bursts, “You son of a bitch, you’re not going to get away with this.”

Moran just grinned predatorily down at him. “Well, we haven’t been caught yet. Jim is very good, very… thorough. And I’m good at, well--you already know what I’m good at.” He shrugged and shucked his bulky leather coat, draping it carefully on the sofa. He pulled his arms across his chest, stretching out; it was an unsettling sight, watching someone limber up in preparation of inflicting pain.

Moran then set about ensuring that all of the curtains were shut tight.

Sherlock took a deep breath and then another, feeling the slight, centering brush of John at his side. They were rapidly running out of viable avenues of escape and Sherlock’s mind spun in a desperate attempt to discern any weakness in their situation for which Moran had no accounted. 

If he could dislocate his thumb, he might possibly be able to slip through the bonds. But as stoic as he could manage to be, he wasn’t sure he could maintain his composure through the inevitable pain long enough to free himself and incapacitate their captor. His subconscious buzzed unhelpfully as he tore through the halls of his mind searching for anything, a ghost of an idea, carefully not watching as Moran readied himself to dispose of them. 

Moran disappeared into the bedroom and John sighed loudly. “Ideas, anything at all?” His shoulder bumped hard into Sherlock’s and Sherlock rolled an inch or two away. He felt the absence of heat immediately and wished desperately that there wasn’t any space between them. If they were going to go down like this, Sherlock wanted to at least be tethered to the one person he--

The one person he what?

Sherlock scrunched up his brow, feeling an uncomfortable heat sizzle up his back. “Not a one,” he eventually replied as Moran sauntered back in, wishing he could reach out and take John’s hand to comfort him. The thought that he wouldn’t get to discover what was blooming between them, that he wouldn’t get to see what John looked like while making dinner or how he sounded when yelling at a bad program on television, the thought that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to do a thousand tiny, innocuous things with John-- _alongside_ him--angered him to the core. 

And yet this entire situation was one of his own doing. _He_ was the object of Moriarty’s ire; if he hadn’t fallen for John, there would have been no danger to him. If he hadn’t been so spectacularly stupid, John would just be another member of the ski medic team, an innocuous presence at the Olympics, no one at all of note. There was nothing for it; he had to get John out of this, and the simple and obvious solution was the only one left to even consider. 

A growl rose up in Sherlock, beginning as a rumble in his belly and vibrating up through his throat. It released as a loud wail and suddenly Sherlock was screaming at the top of his lungs. It tore out of him, desperate and high, “Help! Help us! Help!”

Moran startled and stalked up to him and immediately hit him hard across the face; a blast of sickening yellow tore across his vision, his ears rang discordantly and his world tilted viciously on its axis. Still, he yelled, voice wobbling and wavering, cracking. Again, a strong fist met the side of his head and his stomach lurched violently as the deep, unsettling gong-like sound resonated in his skull. 

Sherlock fell into his body, deep and dark and cold and then came back to consciousness--like resurfacing from the deep, bubbling up--blinking his eyes open, sure that Moran was about to send him spiralling into darkness permanently. 

After a moment he heard the wonderful, relieving sound of John joining in on the shouting, voice strong and sure and defiant. The sound prickled the hair at the back of his neck and Sherlock briefly contemplated telling John to shut up, to stop drawing attention to himself, but he didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary to John; there was nothing to be done but shout and hope that someone would come for them.

Moran struck out again but Sherlock jerked hard, tilting his chair and toppling over hard onto his left bicep, avoiding the blow. It took the wind out of him, the impact jangling hard through his frame, his head bouncing off of the floor with a thud that rang around behind his eyes.

“Fuck,” Moran grunted and then turned around and smacked John again, the sound of flesh on flesh somehow dull and hollow. A moment later there was a thud and a curse, Moran having sent John’s chair over on it’s side. 

From his prone position on the floor, Sherlock could make out Moran’s manic expression, his harried, jerky movements as he took stock of the two of them on the floor. For him to pull this off--for him to _beat_ them to death, Christ--he would have to ensure that they were silent, as to not attract the attention of anyone in the hallway.

Moran took a breath and turned back towards his coat in the same moment that John coughed and sputtered and made a splitting sound. Sherlock could only see the tips of John’s shoes, but he knew Moran had gone for another blow to the face. John was made of something formidable, something absolutely brilliant; as a veteran of the RAMC, he’d surely seen pain, endured it. Rationally, Sherlock knew that John was the stronger of the two of them, but the incessant, terrifying worry for John ate at the tiny shreds of composure remaining. He could only hope that someone showed up while John’s teeth were still intact. 

“Hah,” Sherlock tried again, terror renewing this efforts. “Help!” he called and was immediately met with the kick of Moran’s solid boot in the center of his ribs. A dull, throbbing pain radiated out and a second later the shock wore off and pain tore through him, jagged and searing.“Fuck, help!”

His voice didn’t seem like his own to his ears. It sounded weak and helpless, not at all effective for the cause.

He winced as the meaty sound of flesh on flesh came from across the room; Moran was focusing the brunt of his efforts on John now and that knowledged caused a deluge of pain and regret to tear through Sherlock’s chest. 

It was startling, how crystal clear his mind went in the moment. 

Another solution, one so simple that he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of it previously.There was one thing that men like Moriarty and Moran valued, one thing that was necessary for them to gain power.

“I can pay you,” Sherlock wheezed, just loud enough to hear over the crunch of bone; disappointed with himself for not having thought of this tactic before, Sherlock shifted, his shoulder rolling beneath him and his face tipping upward. He felt ill in the moment--terror churning in his belly--half from expending so much energy attempting to speak and half from imagining what Moran was doing to John. “I can pay you _anything_ you want. _Anything_.”

There was blissful silence for a moment and then Moran appeared back in front of him. “You think I can just be bought?” He sounded amused, like he pitied Sherlock.“I’ve been working for Jim for years, I can’t just be _bought_.”

“But!” Sherlock spoke up as Moran drew his leg back, preparing for another kick, the trajectory this time looking to be aimed at Sherlock’s face. He trained his voice, tried not to sound too desperate for Moran to buy what he was about to say. “Everyone knows who you are! Everyone knows what you do for him, what you are for him, Sebastian. A hired hand! A thug! You think he won’t sell you out the moment he smells trouble? Do you think you’re not expendable to him?”

Moran blinked, plunked the toe of his boot back on the floor, the threat of being kicked in the face momentarily assuaged. Sherlock continued on, spoke earnestly and clearly. “It’s his bottom line that he cares about. You saw how easily he did away with Hanzu.You _know_ , you’re scared of it too, him doing away with you like that.”

A shadow passed over Moran’s face and Sherlock immediately seized on it, honed in on the exposed weakness. “He doesn’t love you. He doesn’t feel for you what you feel for him, Sebastian. You’re just another cog in his machine. Look at what he gives you, he leaves you to clean up after him. How could he love you, how could he _care_ for you if he’s making you do this, if he’s making certain that you’re the one guilty of murder?”

Moran’s jaw set a bit more tightly and Sherlock continued on before Moran could think about their situation or gather any of his thoughts together.

Sherlock’s shoulder had gone from throbbing to numb; his fingers were cold and he couldn’t move them. Circulation to his arm had been cut off entirely, bent at such an odd angle. “That’s your handwriting in the ledger, isn’t it? Your tackle box? Your prints all over it? He doesn’t do any of the dealings himself, does he? Moriarty distances himself, so when it all goes wrong, he can’t be implicated. Doesn’t he?” Sherlock knew it to be true but posed it as questions, aware that if he laid it out plainly, Moran would come to the conclusion he to which he was desperately trying to draw him. 

“Fuck,” John groaned to his right and Sherlock’s confidence bolstered a few notches. John’s voice was clear, cognizant, he was alive and aware and if he could talk them out of their bonds, he could prevent any more harm being done to John.

“You’re the first to go, Moran. It’s you, and you know it. Release us and I will assure you safe passage out of the country. I will assure your anonymity when I bring Jim Moriarty to his knees.” Sherlock was shocked he’d been able to speak as much as he had, between the sickening pain lingering in the pit of his stomach and his anxiety at Moran’s unpredictable behavior; he was getting through to him, if his ability to speak freely for this long was any indication. He just had to keep him on the hook. 

Sherlock proceeded quietly. “All of the evidence he’s left, all of it… points to you.”

John grunted but otherwise said nothing.

“I know someone, I have a contact in the British government who could… help you, get you out of the country.” He sucked in a breath and let his eyes fall closed. “Just, please.” A small part of him withered at having to beg, but he knew that he’d stop at little to ensure that John was safe.

And wasn’t _that_ something, that he was more invested in John getting out of this alive than he himself ever seeing the light of day again. Sherlock stopped short at admitting just that, not wanting to give Moran the extra bait if he divulged just how deeply he felt. 

Moran’s eyes shifted and narrowed and his arms crossed snugly against his chest. He was considering what Sherlock had to say, that much was clear. Swallowing against the constriction in his throat, Sherlock slammed his eyes closed momentarily and peeled them back open, preparing to twist his head for one last glance at John in case things went south.

But John was shouting again, screaming at the top of his lungs, thrashing his bound legs and spitting like a rabid animal. Sherlock’s brow furrowed, he glanced up at Moran and knew in that moment that Moran had chosen not to take the supposed out that Sherlock had presented him with. 

He joined John, shouting at the top of his lungs once again, voice breaking with the force of it as he felt hope slip away. Moran bent over, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders and was about to bring a fist down against the side of his face when there was a rattling at the door. Everyone froze for a split second and then simultaneously John and Sherlock began screaming and thrashing.

There was a solid thump and then another and Moran was pulling away, moving toward the door on lumbering legs. With one more thump Greg stumbled through the doorway sideways, clutching his shoulder and hurriedly taking in the scene.

“Bloody--” was all he was able to get out before Moran was charging at him. 

Greg’s eyes went wide but he ducked at the last moment, thrusting his right shoulder out and into the man’s gut and they both fell to the floor in a heap, scrabbling. Sherlock rolled his shoulders, managing to turn himself just the slightest bit towards the scuffle and saw Lestrade pull back, eyes wild and sink an elbow directly into Moran’s solar plexus. 

A moment later he stumbled back and up, took a staggered breath and kicked Moran in the groin. Lestrade stood, chest heaving, gathering his wits about himself. Hair a mess, flush high in his cheeks, he glanced quickly all over the room.

“Lamp, Greg,” Sherlock called brokenly and Greg snapped to attention, looking from Sherlock to the tabletop lamp which he snatched up with a shaky hand and it brought it down hard on Moran’s head. The lamp didn’t shatter but instead hit skin and bone with a dull thud and then thunked over to the side, the bulb flickering out as it rolled as far as its cord allowed.

To his credit, Greg didn’t take very long to compose himself, instantly going to his knees by John and working at his bindings with shaky hands. “You two, you _two_ ,” he muttered, trying to pry the complex knots apart. “Fuck.”

“Steak knife,” Sherlock croaked, “hallway, room service tray, two, two doors down.”

Struggling to his feet, Greg pointed a finger at Sherlock and said, “Don’t fucking pass out,” and jogged from the room.

Sherlock passed his tongue over his teeth, and sighed. “John?”

“Mm, Sherlock, Jesus, yeah.”

“You’re alive.” He was breathless and in pain, but still he smiled.

John groaned low in his throat and then choked out a cough. “I’m a contusion, Christ, I didn’t think--”

Sherlock wanted so badly to touch him, to make his way across the room and take John in his arms. He wanted to be a balm to his wounds, apologize for the mess he’d gotten them into, swear that he would spend his life making it up to John. Instead, he said, “Shut up, just conserve your energy, we’ll, we’ll-”

“I’m sorry,” John croaked and Sherlock immediately torqued his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. 

Sherlock shook his head against the carpet. “No, I--no. For what?”

“I wasn’t prepared, I should have been ready, I could have--”

“No, stop,” Sherlock said, clipped. “Shut up, shut up.”

“Sherlock--”

“I said shut up,” Sherlock very nearly shouted and John finally heeded his demand and they fell into silence. 

Greg made his reappearance, dirty steak knife in hand and began sawing through the rope. “Jesus, so, he come here to finish you off?”

“They were both here, Moriarty was… he was going to make it look like a, well, obviously,” Sherlock winced and tried to take some of the weight off of his shoulder. “Could you hurry along with that, Lestrade?”

“Oh, yes, right, sorry. I just saved you from being killed but right, definitely be a dick to me.” John’s arms came loose and Greg set about working on freeing John’s legs.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John muttered and that caused Sherlock to laugh, the motion of doing so causing pain to radiate up his spine. “We would have been fucked if you hadn’t been here, Greg.”

“Yeah, well, saw Moriarty faffing about without his entourage looking like the cat that got the canary and figured checking on the two of you wouldn’t be the worst idea. ‘Course, when I didn’t hear back from either of you…”

There was a moment of silence and then Sherlock briefly explained to Lestrade what had happened. “Moriarty is planning on pinning it all on Moran; we can’t let that happen.”

Freed, John rolled onto his back and closed his eyes. He needed tending to; his lip was split open, his face a mess of bruises, and with the way he was pressing around his ribs he likely had cracked one or two at the very least. Sherlock’s very atoms surged with the compulsion to cross the room and cradle John close. 

He didn’t take his eyes off of John as Greg struggled to get him free. Once the ropes were pulled away, Sherlock fought against the violent waves of pain and went to his knees, crossed the room at a crawl and sat at John’s head. With gentle hands he lifted John’s upper body and resettled him across his lap. Greg came over and sank down on the floor as well, back against the sofa with his legs stretched in front of him.

“Christ,” Greg swore and pressed at his own ribs. “Goddamned oaf, got a solid shot in.”

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, but gazed down at John who stared back up at him. John cracked a bloody smile and then winced, Sherlock’s fingertips slipping carefully over his cheek. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“Probably, yeah, a good idea. Think he broke a rib… or seven.” John’s eyes fell closed as he took a deep breath. He was bloodied and bruised but he wasn’t broken; he looked like a miracle to Sherlock. When his eyes peeled open, they settled, concerned, on Sherlock’s face. “Are you? Are you alright, Jesus, Sherlock...”

“May also have a broken rib, but…” His head fell forward and Sherlock sighed, the weight of the past few hours pressing in upon him. There was a hollowness that he felt in the pit of his gut; he carded his fingers through John’s hair, knowing that there were words that needed to be spoken. “John, I’d never intended, that is to say… it’s my fault this happened and had I known that Moriarty intended to target me I would never have allowed myself to become entangled with you and--”

“Shut your mouth,” John said sternly. “I’d kiss you if my mouth wasn’t so,” he gestured weakly at his face. “No one’s taking the blame for this; Moriarty’s a madman, so just… shut up.”

Greg nodded in agreement, eyes closed as his head hung back. “John’s right, Moriarty’s a fucking nutter, there was no planning for all of this… this…” Greg sighed and managed a weak, “bullshit.”

Sherlock swallowed and considered. He knew he shouldn’t keep John, but he wanted to so desperately, wanted to believe that he could have everything with John. But his pride, his insatiable urge to be the best, the brightest, an unstoppable force, would ruin them eventually. His ego would destroy them. Yet the thought of letting this go, of letting this free was almost as unthinkable. The sentiment tore at him as he imagined turning John away and a wave of sadness overcame him. 

This was much more than he’d ever expected it to be. Internally, Sherlock chastised himself yet again for allowing his sentiment to overrule his brain--he didn’t deserve any of the inevitable fallout that would come of this situation. Now, however, was not the time to be mulling over such things. “Greg,” Sherlock implored without taking his eyes off of John’s face, “call for an ambulance, would you? Do let them know that there’s an attempted murderer lying on our floor about to resurface from being knocked out and that some sort of police presence would be advisable.”

“Yeah, yep,” Greg rolled to the side and coming to his knees he pressed into the end table. The silence in the room was filled with Greg’s increasingly exasperated voice attempting to communicate to the authorities exactly what they needed and why.

“Going to sound a bit bonkers, I think,” John sighed and shimmed back against Sherlock’s leg, propping himself up just the slightest bit. Sherlock hummed in response, still preoccupied with his thoughts.

“Seriously, Sherlock,” John whispered, finding the fingers that were in his hair and twining their hands together almost too tightly. “Get out of your head. I know what you’re thinking, I know that you’re trying to talk yourself out of all of this because you’re a _bloody idiot_ and… I’ll never forgive you if you do.”

Sherlock chuckled, once, jostling John’s head in his lap; that wasn’t the end of things, far from it, but Sherlock felt a bit lighter for it. 

“John,” Sherlock breathed, desperate, soppy words tearing up his throat, threatening to give it all away before he could even think about an actual solution. “I--”

“Whatever you’re going to say… think on it and we’ll talk after we find out if I have internal bleeding, yeah?” It was a joke--a terrible one, but a joke still--and John cracked a smile at him. 

“I am sorry,” Sherlock replied, voice just above a whisper, and he bent until his lips rested on John’s brow.

“I know,” John said back, just as quietly. 

They sat together on the floor, listening on as Greg phoned his contact at the IOC. Minutes later, Sherlock was cradling the phone against his ear while his hands trailed lightly across John’s skin, giving them a detailed account of what had just transpired in his hotel suite. It sounded to Sherlock like a terrifically outlandish tale even as he told it, as though it might have been artfully crafted fiction. His ribs throbbed to remind him that the pain had been real, the plot had been just as diabolical as he was describing, and that yes, indeed, one of the world’s best skiers was actually a murdering, scheming sociopath.

“This is all so fucking insane,” John had muttered once Sherlock had gotten around to describing Moran and Moriarty appearing at his hotel room door. Sherlock had nodded once down at John in agreement; it was fucking insane, but it was over. 

By the time the police had been dealt with and the scene had been documented by photographers and delegates of the IOC, the sun had slipped behind the mountains and Sherlock was quickly losing his patience with the deluge of people who had invaded the room, and John was struggling with not falling asleep. 

“Might we get to hospital now? As you can see my colleague here is having quite some trouble keeping awake!” Olympic Village doctors had seen to the both of them, but it was still recommended that they get transported to the Village Hospital.

In the transport van, Sherlock settled his hand atop John’s where it lay on his chest. They were attached to IVs and two harried paramedics worked on cleaning their wounds. It was cramped, not unlike an ambulance, and made even more so by the several members of the ethics commission who had accompanied them. 

The ride was silent and for a long, peaceful moment, Sherlock allowed his eyes to close and willed his mind to stop its buzzing. Exhaustion stole over him, the very last of the endorphins that the adrenaline had left melting away. All he could feel was the gentle rocking of the van and the warmth of John’s skin against his own.

When he peeled his eyes back open, it was to the sight of the commission members staring down at him--at _them_ \--and their obvious body language, Sherlock tethering John to himself openly, affectionately. One woman rolled her eyes while another man carefully, primly averted his gaze. And though their reaction was no surprise, while Sherlock knew he should have expected it, it caused a little bubble of anger to burst in the center of his chest. 

Carefully, Sherlock rearranged his hand to clutch tightly at John, intertwining their fingers; he leaned over and brushed his lips against John’s knuckles before resting their hands back on the side of John’s cot. His anger slipped away as he felt John squeeze weakly at his hand.

He was alive.

John was alive. 

They would be alive _together_ , Sherlock resolved with a shaking sort of clarity that allowed for no dissension. 

Sherlock glared once at the members of the commission before closing his eyes with finality. Let his reputation be damned if he could keep John Watson.

\---

> SOCHI, Russia - The skiing world was turned on its head Tuesday night when allegations were brought against dynamo Swiss ski and downhill favorite James Moriarty. Implicated in not only a plot to illegally traffic banned skiing wax to other elite athletes, but most importantly, in a murder plot, the thirty-eight year old skier was banned from the competitions and led from Olympic Village by police.
> 
> There are few details that are being released to the press; as it stands, security has been increased dramatically in the wake of these events, both at Olympic Village and at Rosa Khutor.
> 
> Rumors abound that Sherlock Holmes factored into Moriarty’s arrest, though details are unconfirmed as of late. Speaking with Holmes’s ex-coach Gregory Lestrade, we learned only that Holmes was preparing for the final in the downhill, which due to recent events was moved to Thursday morning. A spokesperson for the IOC tells us that they will be issuing a release about the matter as early as Wednesday evening. 
> 
> Moriarty’s representatives could not be reached for comment but it was confirmed by an unnamed source that all of his endorsement deals have since dropped him as a spokesperson. 
> 
> The final of the men’s downhill will be aired on Thursday evening at 8:00pm on NBC Sports and local NBC affiliates.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chaos of the past few days melted away and Sherlock could see the course for what it was, its raw angles and jumps. He was doing what he was _born_ to do and everything else simply became background noise.

They were in hospital for what seemed like eons. The competence of the doctors on staff was certainly much higher than what they would encounter if the world’s elite athletes had not overrun the city, but Sherlock was miffed at the quality of treatment all the same. Since he was the athlete, the doctors swarmed over him first upon their arrival at the A&E, but he was very adamant in his demands that John be treated first.

Sherlock sat splay-kneed on a gurney in the hallway of the under-attended ward, wringing his hands in his lap. He gave an experimental twist of his body and was rewarded with a flare of pain, but nothing too substantial. With gentle fingers he pressed against his ribs at his front and back for as far as he could reach, but it felt as though everything was still intact. They would check him for internal bleeding but nothing felt seriously off, which was both a surprise and a blessing; he was still in a massive amount of pain but it seemed that nothing was broken.

Not long after they had wheeled John into an exam room, Greg arrived and informed Sherlock that the IOC was currently devising a plan for the finals in the men’s downhill event, but the ordeal with Moriarty had thrown the situation into a type of chaos that they clearly were not prepared for.

“Well,” Sherlock said, staring at the wall in front of him. “They’ll have to hold the final or there will be an uproar on an international scale.”

Greg nodded. “Especially from the Swedes.”

They fell into a companionable silence, both of them perched on the gurney, and didn’t speak again until a doctor sauntered over, removing her gloves as she did so. “Holmes, you know this man, Watson.” Her voice was thick and brusque, her composure lending to her appearance of efficiency. “I’m Doctor Suslova, I treated him.”

“Yes, I-”

She sighed and tossed her gloves into a nearby bin. “Three broken ribs, a fractured cheekbone. He suffered pneumothorax and has extensive bruising. The nose is fractured but not broken. No internal bleeding or any other breaks. He’ll need to take it quite the easy way for a while and no monkeying around.” Her accent was thick, but Sherlock got the gist of it, nodding as she spoke.

“They’re ready for you in exam room B,” she muttered and then walked away, both Sherlock and Greg watching as she went.

“I guess you have to wheel yourself in,” Greg said, bemused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m fine.” He hopped down off the stretcher with a feigned energy that he didn’t feel and a stab of pain radiated up from the center of his right foot. “Well, relatively fine.”

\---

Sherlock turned out to have several bruised ribs, a fractured foot and was bruised liberally elsewhere, but somehow, miraculously, he was relatively unscathed considering how much pain he’d been in hours earlier. He’d be sore in the morning--and likely for a long while after--but his athleticism and health had worked in his favor. 

The ribs got taped, the foot was wrapped tightly in a bandage and all the while, as the doctors poked and prodded him, Sherlock wondered where John was and how he was doing. Greg had left Sherlock to see about John and then hadn’t returned, which could’ve meant any number of things, but his mind was too exhausted to supply him with any full, fleshed-out situations.

A blessing and a curse.

Bruised and bandaged, Sherlock left the examination room with a warning by the doctors to take it easy for the foreseeable future and a prescription for some fairly powerful painkillers. He stuffed the script into his trouser pocket and went off in search of John and Greg.

It took him some time to find his way through the illogical, labyrinthine layout but he eventually found them seated in a small reception area. They were both nursing cups of coffee--the first thing Sherlock noticed. The second was how haggard John appeared: bright purple splotches on his face, a vicious stripe of red across the bridge of his nose. His clothes hung, awkward and loose on his frame, and he balanced his elbows precariously on the arms of the rickety-looking wheelchair in an odd position as though his spine couldn’t hold him upright.

Their eyes met, John’s lips moving in a whispered, “Sherlock, oh.” When he straightened and stood, it was with a harsh grimace. 

And they they were in each other's arms, John’s coffee abandoned quickly on the little end table. They held each other carefully, mindful of their injuries, John grunting when Sherlock’s fingers dug in too hard. “You shouldn’t be out of a hospital bed,” Sherlock murmured into the hair where he’d pressed his lips.

“No, probably not, but…” Sherlock released him and helped him back down into the chair. A moment later Sherlock was down on his knees in front of John, his palms resting on John’s thighs. “Three broken ribs, another four likely bruised, a bit of this,” he gestured at his face. “The inside of my mouth is a mess, but. Could have been a lot worse.”

“Yes. It could have,” Sherlock whispered and stared up at John in wonder. His eyes flickered briefly to Greg, who’d tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. 

John settled his hand against the side of Sherlock’s face and then trailed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. “Greg filled me in on the chaos, he says he thinks they’ll move the final two days back.”

To Sherlock’s left, Greg grunted his agreement.

“How’d you make out, hm?” John pulled back to look at his face. 

“Bruised ribs, fractured foot, otherwise fine, though I’m sure we’ll both be feeling this for more than a few days. It’s a miracle there was no internal bleeding. Quite lucky that Moran hadn’t thought to put on his steel-toed boots this morning.”

John pursed his lips and rested his hands around Sherlock’s neck, a sweet, warm weight. It was a long moment before he spoke. “You’re going to try and ski, aren’t you?”

Sherlock sniffed primly, glancing over to Greg and then back to John. “Of course.”

“Is there anything, _anything_ I can say to make you reconsider that, you utter madman?” John sounded reproachful, though he was smiling fondly.

Sherlock grinned briefly, and then sighed through his nose. As easily as his lips had turned upwards, they cast down. “If I don’t ski, Moriarty wins.” 

“Well, when you put it like that…” John said quietly, sliding his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles. “Any word on what’s going to happen with him?”

“It’s all under investigation,” Lestrade murmured, eyes, still closed, cutting into their conversation. “But Moran came to shortly after you two arrived here, did a bit of talking,” he added, casually.

Sherlock and John shared a charged look. “And you didn’t think to mention that,” Sherlock ground out, turning his attention to his left, “at any time before now?”

“No point,” Greg’s headed lolled back and forth against the wall; he peeled his eyes open. “You knew he was going to confess, you said as much. There’ve been no decisions made, but Moran’s going to confirm your story. Bit anticlimactic after that. Moriarty has been sanctioned by the IOC and won’t compete, there’ll be a trial, but all that’ll take ages.” Greg shrugged again, “Sorry, feeling a bit loopy from the meds they gave me, brilliant things. But, yes, nothing to worry about now, but… but skiing the final, yeah?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted before flapping open, though no words came out. Promptly, he snapped his lips closed and Lestrade gave a shrug, resuming resting his eyes. Sherlock frowned further, but returned his attention to John. 

“Press’ll be everywhere,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s wrists. “You going to be okay with that?”

“Will you? They know that you were with me. There’s only so much dodging of rumors one is able to do before someone-”

“So don’t dodge them, don’t… don’t talk to anyone. We’ll…” John sighed and closed his own eyes briefly. “We’ll figure it all out afterward,” he assured, even as Sherlock rested back on his heels, pulling away. 

“No, no,” John was quick to dispel the rapidly forming doubts in Sherlock’s mind. “I don’t care, I don’t _care_ who knows, it’s just neither of us needs this right now. You’re in the final and I… well, I’ll be recovering for the rest of the bloody month.”

“It’s not a problem for you, then? People assuming we’re together?”

“It’s not a problem, exactly. I don’t want anyone to know about it because I haven’t had you to myself for that long. I don’t want anyone to know because, well, we don’t rightly know just what we are to one another yet. I don’t want others to have it before we do,” he bit at his lower lip and paused. “If that makes any sense. It’s not because I’m ashamed or afraid... I would just, you know…”

“What?” Sherlock prompted, a soft smile tugging at his mouth.

The answering smile that lit John’s face was a bit bashful, a bit self-deprecating. “Want to have the mysterious Sherlock Holmes all to myself a little longer.”

“That,” and Sherlock leaned up to press a soft kiss to John’s temple, “can most certainly be arranged.”

\---

They parted ways at the hospital, John being whisked off to a new hotel where the other ski team medics were staying. Sherlock agreed with him that it was probably for the best, being around other medical personnel while also providing some distance between them while the reporters were all champing at the bit for a morsel of a story.

Sherlock was brought back to his hotel by a squadron of beefy Russian security officers; they got him through the sea of press that was waiting in front of the hotel and swept his room before leaving Sherlock to his own devices in a brand new room on the third floor. 

Sighing, he noted that someone had gathered up his belongings and had laid them all carefully out on the king bed.

Confused, he took a step towards his things, spying a note tucked into the front flap of his laptop bag.

 _Sherlock,_ it read in swooping, curly letters. _I didn’t think you’d want to have to go back to your room to gather your things, I hope you don’t mind. Got a bit of the story from Greg but call me when you get a chance, please. Worried. XO, Molly._

Sherlock read and reread the note, the words filtering through his brain slowly. Eyes sliding closed, he crumpled the note in his hand and crawled up onto the bed, over his things, and curled onto the pillow. He wound his arms around the mass of cotton and down tightly, squeezing it hard.

His last thought before drifting off to an exhausted sleep, was how overwhelmingly grateful he was, to be alive, for the people in his life, for everything.

\----

Sherlock slept a dreamless sleep and awoke feeling heavy and sore, as though someone had attempted to extract the bones from his body right through his skin. Carefully, he turned onto his side and blinked his eyes open, focusing on the bedside clock. He’d been out for fifteen hours solid, though he still felt like he could use another month or so.

His bladder made it necessary to leave the bed, and in the loo he caught a glimpse of the state of his face. His eyes harbored deep, purple crescents beneath them and his cheek and the side of his right eye were a sick, mottled purple. Sherlock looked properly done over and he swallowed at the sight; he looked more the part of an underground prize fighter than an elite skier. 

Running his fingers gently beneath his eyes, his thoughts wandered to John and how he was faring today - if he was feeling as awful as Sherlock was, if he’d slept, taken his painkillers, told anyone about what had happened to them. Sherlock’s mobile was in the bedroom but he resolved to take a long, scalding shower before calling. He was greasy and gritty with dried blood and his skin felt as though it’d shrunk as he slept.

Dehydrated, probably.

He’d have a shower, make his calls to John and Molly and set about drinking the entirely of the hotel’s supply of bottled water. 

As he stepped under the spray he wondered, nervously, how he was possibly going to be able to ski in the finals in a day and a half. Remembering the prescription in his pocket, he added getting painkillers to the list of things he would do when he was properly clean and dressed. 

\---

Sherlock called his agent, Molly, and his parents in that order, making sure all of his bases were covered and leaving his agent and Molly to distribute the information about his condition to those that needed to know. Then he settled on his bed and dialed John.

John answered the phone with a groan and a cough.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he knew instantly that the level of concern he felt was far beyond what the situation called for; his lips twisted in personal disapproval.

“I feel,” John said with a sigh, “as though I was tied to the back of a vehicle and dragged. _That_ is how I feel.”

Sherlock settled gently onto his back, resting his head carefully on the pillow. For a brief moment he felt like a young boy, a teenager, speaking on the phone to a crush. It was a novel sensation that was instantly wiped away by the reminder that not a day ago they had both been in the clutches of a madman and had nearly died.

“Rather graphic,” Sherlock said with a laugh and noted that he too felt that way; the pills were finally taking the edge off, however, and a lovely swell of warmth was taking over his body. “Though the Vicodin is beginning to help considerably. Brilliant stuff.”

“Brilliant and addictive. I can’t keep it down, fancy that! Nor the Percocet, so they’ve switched me to codeine. But enough about that, what are your plans for tomorrow, er, Thursday, bloody _what day is it_?”

Sherlock chuckled, his diaphragm cringing at the movement. “My plan is to--and I can’t believe I’m saying this--is to do absolutely nothing because I… can’t. At the moment.” Even as he said it, Sherlock frowned. He wasn’t used to being sedentary and it would surely drive him slightly mad but there was nothing for it.

“Ah, you’re going to go insane,” Sherlock could hear John’s smile in his voice.

“Yes, I am.” Sherlock replied with a chuckle. “How is the new hotel?”

“Well, it’s more efficient and hospitable than the last, but people won’t stop asking questions. I mean, I think they know I was involved but they don’t know _everything_ , so. Moriarty is everywhere in the news and then there’s his connection to you, and then there are the photos of you and I together... so it’s not exactly a secret. They’ve laid off in the past few hours, though.”

“That’s good to hear; we don’t need the media interfering with your recovery.”

“Or yours,” John said, pointedly.

Sherlock nodded to himself, “Right.” A silence fell over the line and Sherlock worried his bottom lip for a time before he spoke again. “So.”

“So.”

“Have you any plans for after all of this wraps up?” Sherlock attempted to sound nonchalant, though he couldn’t help but speculate as to what would become of _them_ after the excitement and fervor of the Games went away. John had said he wanted to see what happened between them, all but said that they were _together_ now, but it was all still too abstract and unformed for Sherlock’s liking. 

It had all been said in the aftermath of trauma and now that his thoughts had settled and he was in a different mindspace, Sherlock found that he wanted to make certain that they were both absolutely on the same page. 

“I ah,” John groaned a little; Sherlock pictured him stretching in his bed on the other side of Olympic Village. “Can’t do much in the way of providing medical attention with the state I’m in and they cleared me to fly in about a week, so.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, when are you taking off? That is, after your race I assume you’ll have to stick around for a little while.”

Sherlock swallowed. “I’m not sure that’s a wise idea. I’ll have to speak with my agent about giving an interview and-”

“Oh right, yeah. Just thought we might-”

Sherlock steeled himself and rushed to get his words out, before he could convince himself that he was being too sentimental. “What you wanted, to have me just to yourself for awhile. I want it, I want _that_ John, with you. Come back to London with me and we’ll, we’ll see-”

“Yes,” John said in a rush, voice equally as tinged with desperation.

Silence fell on the line and Sherlock held his breath, lingering on John’s simple declaration. Eventually Sherlock’s lip turned up into a smile, then into a grin; he wiped at his mouth with his free hand, thumb and forefinger smearing against the corner of his lips. “Good. That’s good.”

“I think so,” John said. “I really, really do.”

\---

Greg arrived at Sherlock’s room early on Thursday, a protein shake in one hand, a coffee in the other. “I’ve come to handle you,” he said by way of greeting, pressing his way into the suite. “Mycroft rang and said he’s dealt with most of the press, whatever the hell that means, but I don’t trust that some arsehole journalist isn’t going to try to get at you.”

Sherlock sighed and hung his head, nodding even as he did. “Right. Yes.”

Greg sipped at his coffee, eyes widening in disbelief. “You say yes, just like that? No argument at all?”

Sherlock threw his hands out at his side. “What good would arguing do. And… it’s logical. It makes sense.” He lifted his head and their gazes met. “I appreciate it.”

For a moment, Greg stood there, stunned, and then shrugged his shoulders. “Sure. Anytime. You know that.”

Sherlock’s mouth flickered in a grateful smile. “I do. Know that.”

Greg licked his lips, “And I thought I might try and make you reconsider doing this, what with you being a walking bruise, but we both know that isn’t going to get me anywhere, right?”

Sherlock shot Greg a look that very clearly said that it wouldn’t get him anywhere. “I’ve had a cortisone shot in my foot, it’s fine.”

“Definitely fine, just a _fracture_ , not like you need to put massive pressure on your foot or anything.” Greg drawled, took a sip of his coffee and huffed out a sigh. “Right then, you bloody idiot, gather your things, you’ve a gold to win so hurry the fuck up!” His chipper tone caused Sherlock to roll his eyes, but he did as he was told.

Leaving the hotel they were met with several reporters who apparently had not heeded Mycroft’s warnings--whatever they were--but Sherlock simply kept his head down, sunglasses over his eyes and pushed through to the cart that would take them to the tram. The press wasn’t going to go away until he gave an official interview, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.

Sherlock was silent as he finished off the rest of his protein shake, staring out the window of the car as it made its way up the mountain. His mind was on the race, on John, on the sudden realization that after this event he would no longer be a skier--not by occupation--and countless other things that buzzed through his head. He was having difficulty focusing on one single thing, which was troubling to him. 

He made an effort to center himself, engaged in a breathing exercise, but was pulled out of it by a buzzing in his parka pocket. Pulling out his mobile, he spotted a text from John.

_The gold podium is a meter and a quarter off of the ground, so I hope those painkillers aren’t causing vertigo. XX_

Sherlock tossed his head back and barked out a laugh, his whole body shaking with the effort. A giddiness filled him and he found that he couldn’t stop smiling down at his phone as he thought of how to reply.

“Oi, none of that flirting,” Greg said and snatched his phone away, pocketing it. Sherlock let him take it, and leaned his head against the cool glass of the window, grinning.

\---

His team was excited but serious when he arrived at the top of the mountain. Molly was busy preparing his accessories while Phillip toiled over the tail end of his skis, twisting them this way and that to gauge how thick the wax was. When they finally noticed that Sherlock had arrived, neither of them said a word, but each bowed their heads in greeting and returned back to their tasks.

Sherlock almost smiled; even if he wasn’t exactly in the proper headspace, his team certainly was. He found himself an empty stall and began tugging on his Lycra, pausing to appreciate how snugly it fit his body. This was a singular sensation he was sure he would miss, the idea that he was one long line from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes, that he was held together, bound by this suit. Sherlock sighed as he adjusted the wrists and the ankles and tugged on his Olympic vest.

He noted his skier’s number for the first time and smiled; Sherlock wondered how many other times he’d failed to take note of his designated bib number. For a moment he considered chastising himself once again--sentiment--but he found he didn’t mind.

Now was a time for reflection and contemplation. 

Making his way back to his team, he sat on a bench and waited as Molly passed along his gloves and boots; she went down on her knees to check that his foot was wrapped properly and then secured them at his ankles. 

“Sure you’re okay to go, boss?” Molly asked. She touched the side of his face lightly, just below the bruising, but Sherlock only nodded.

She moved along, producing his cap, and then goggles that were strapped around his head, perched on his brow.

Everything was silent, though there was a flurry of action all around him. To his immense relief, none of the skiers in the hut seemed keen to speak with him about what had happened. Though he had obviously been through a great ordeal as evidenced by his slight limp and liberal bruising, they gave him a wide berth as he prepared.

Glancing up at the large board in the wall, he saw that he was sixth in the lineup. He’d have a bit of time to wait, but that was fine. Turning to his team, Sherlock motioned for them all to come over; they huddled around him, all in various stages of restrained excitement. 

He blew out a breath and took in the look on each member’s face. “I… believe it’s appropriate in situations such as this to extend gratitude. And so I shall. I could not have possibly imagined at the beginning of my tenure as a professional skier that I would be in the position that I am now. That is, I never would have imagined, nearly fifteen years ago, that I would stand before a group of people and tell them that I owe my success--in large part--to the alpine professionals that stand before me.

“I do not believe it was a matter of luck or a matter of fate, but a very sound and intelligent decision made by Gregory Lestrade to bring each and every one of you on. I know what people say about my ego and temperament and I’m not saying that the rumors are true or not.”

The last bit garnered a round of chuckles from those surrounding him. “But I know I haven’t made it easy for you over the years and I… very much appreciate every bit of your work, your attention to detail, your loyalty and your professionalism. I would say--though I may be biased--that I have been privileged to work with the best team in all of downhill racing, and I thank you.”

His team said nothing, all staring up at him with various looks of disbelief. Unaccustomed to such outpourings of sentimentality, Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, adding, after a time, “Er, dismissed?”

“You bastard,” Molly sniffled and wrapped him around the waist in a hug. The others soon stepped forward to share their own gestures of kindness, handshakes and light shoulder punches and simple last words of encouragement. 

Philip stepped forward with Sherlock’s skis and the group stepped back, falling silent once more. “Now,” Philip said, with gravitas. “Let’s get you into these fuckers and send you down that mountain at eighty miles an hour.”

His entire team erupted in raucous cheers and Sherlock couldn’t help but break into a lopsided, giddy grin. 

It took awhile to get himself situated, but Phillip had him lock in and test the resistance, reset his boots and then try again. By the time he was set with poles in his hands, he was on deck. It hit him then, a fastball to the solar plexus, that this was it. This was _the end_.

He scissored his skis back and forth on the hard-packed snow, warming up his calves and thighs. It was bizarre, how completely numb he suddenly felt when just a moment before he’d had dozens of emotions warring within his chest; now he wasn’t nervous, wasn’t excited, wasn’t sad to be ending his professional skiing tenure. Sherlock had been preparing for this race, _his_ race, his entire life. Now that it was upon him, it seemed almost impossible.

It seemed impossible that this would be the last time he would burst through the starting gate, the last time he would cross an Olympic finish line.

It was at that moment that his foot chose to remind him on his injury and he shifted his weight onto his other leg. The dull throbbing persisted and Sherlock grit his teeth against the sensation. It hurt, badly, but it wouldn’t be impossible to maneuver on, not for just one run. 

Not for his _last_ run. He’d ski through the pain.

Sherlock swallowed and a rush of sound hit him; he flinched, licked his lips and heaved out a single breath. He turned and met the eyes of Molly, Phillip and the rest of his team where they stood by the exit to the hut. He wouldn’t be needing them anymore after today; he wouldn’t be needing them anymore, _ever_ , and the thought caused his stomach to lurch.

Sherlock dipped his head in recognition once more, in thanks. They did the same in return and Molly smiled at him, winked, and then opened the door and led the team out, back to the tram. They would be at the finish line awaiting him; for the first time in his career, he would have a group of people waiting at the finish line for him.

That made his mind buzz a bit as well; everything was different now, _everything_.

And if this was going to be his last race, he thought in that instant--feeling a thrill of confidence roll up his spine and pound in his temples--he was bloody well going to make it count.

The race official came over and told him that they were prepared for him to enter the area beside the gate; Sherlock hadn’t even noticed when the area had begun to empty out, hadn’t even registered the countdown beeps. He was fifth from the starting line and he took a seat on one of the long, heated benches, staring down at his skis.

His ankles twinged and his jaw hurt; he felt raw and beaten but not broken. He’d do his absolute best, that was all he could ask for himself. If he was going to go hard, put his body through the ringer, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the long recuperation times before he could get back on the slopes again--he wouldn’t have to get back on the slopes again if he didn’t want to.

Sherlock blew out a breath and stood, knowing that he was on deck, watching as the top rated skier from Norway disappeared through the gate. It was silent in the tent for a moment and then an official was hurrying Sherlock to the starting line, as though he’d never done this before, as though this wasn’t all completely routine to him.

The official looked him up and down, from the tips of his skis to the mottled purple of his face, nodded and stepped back, leaving him alone, looking down onto the course. 

When he got to the line, a burst of chilled air hit his face and he inhaled deeply, his chest immediately protesting. With all of the endorphins he’d nearly forgotten about his injuries, had nearly forgotten about all that had happened to him over the previous week. He gazed down upon the mountain below him; sun dappled the shadows of trees across the course, the bright blue of the course marker seemed more vivid and vibrant, the orange warning fencing throbbed hot and alive in his vision and he sucked in a calming breath deep into his lungs. 

Ski poles at his side, he dipped his body into a starting crouch. There was pressure at his temples, underneath his tongue, as though he should put voice to words he didn’t have. Sherlock had a startling thought in that moment, that he should remember what he was thinking as he was going down the slope. That someone was going to ask him what he’d been thinking just before the race. But he was thinking of nothing and _everything_ and how would he explain that in the seconds before the countdown beeps sounded he was thinking about every single moment of the rest of his life? How could he explain that he felt both larger than life and a single miniscule being that existed in the unfathomable cosmos? How could he explain, anything, _anything_ at all. 

_Beep_ , came the first warning.

 _Beep_ , came the second warning. Sherlock felt a jolt of bile rise in his throat that was allayed instantly by a sense of overwhelming calm. 

His body took over and thrust him through the starting gate.

Sherlock hit the hard-packed snow with such a force he felt it in his teeth, and at the sensation he growled, smiled and ground down. 

He moved fluidly, though his muscles protested immensely. His ribs screamed at him, red-hot pain pressing around his lungs, sizzling down his spine. Sherlock’s brain had control, however, not allowing him to give in and buckle to the immense discomfort. His eyes focused on the blue course markers as he whizzed by, his mind recalling the precise instances that he needed to shift his knees or backside, tuck his arms back further or duck into a turn.

The chaos of the past few days melted away and Sherlock could see the course for what it was, its raw angles and jumps. He was doing what he was _born_ to do and everything else simply became background noise.

Sherlock felt as though he were on autopilot, flying around the first of the tight right turns with what he swore was more speed than he’d managed in any of his other runs. _Not helpful_ , his conscious mind shouted at him and he narrowed his eyes, determining how much time he hand before he would reach the Bear’s Brow jump; the course prior to that point was where he knew he could pick up the most time.

He was electric, on fire, untouchable as he dipped even lower and sped over the jump, taking so much speed into the Russian Trampoline that he, for a brief moment, was almost unsure that he would land. 

Doubt flickered once again, but his skis made solid impact on the icy slope and he tore away unharmed, the finish line in his sights. He tucked his arms in tight to his side, bent his head and whizzed across the blue finish line, cutting his skis into a stop.

Immediately his eyes went up to the leaderboard: 2:13:57.

An unreal time on this course, he knew it.

Sherlock blinked back at the numbers, sure they were a mirage, and then glanced at the stands where the spectators were going crazy. He spotted Molly and Greg, jumping up and down and screaming, slapping each other on the arm.

And there too, resting on a bench far from the excitement, was John Watson, face mostly obstructed by the hood of a large, army green parka. He was clapping gently, but their eyes met across the distance and John winked at him, then shooting him two thumbs up. Sherlock sighed and then grinned, unsure whether to be upset that John had put himself through what was surely agony to get down here, or to be thrilled.

He _wanted_ to share this moment with John, more than anyone else. He wanted to spend every moment afterward with John Watson. He was _free_ , he was _alive_ and he was most certainly _in love_.

Sherlock looked up to the sky and laughed openly, ribs jostling unhappily at the movement, and then he skied over to the designated area on the sidelines and waited in front of the large NBC Sports backdrop. He was smiling far too much, he was sure, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

There were four more skiers and if they couldn’t pick up two seconds on the course… the gold was his.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is a much different Sherlock Holmes than we usually see, what’s changed?”
> 
> Sherlock frowned, and licked his lips. He had his stock answer, his cold, controlled, post-race diatribe. But it was the last time he’d be giving an interview like this, and truth be told, things _had_ changed for him. He blew out a breath and considered. He felt the pain that was throbbing in his foot and his ribs flare back up and he acknowledged silently how close he’d come to death. 
> 
> “So much has changed, Shannon. So much."

The noise was a distant buzzing, the light that was reflecting off of the snow blinding, and when the last skier crossed the finish line and Sherlock glanced at the scoreboard, his knees very nearly gave out. Everything went still and static and it was a loud kind of silence that made his head race. His legs felt rubbery and it seemed as though his skull had rapidly imploded and then expanded. 

There was a distant rushing between his ears, like the ocean had invaded his mind and he felt gentle congratulatory thumps on his back and shoulders, ribs protesting dimly at the touch. 

He’d won. _He’d won_. 

He’d won the gold medal. His first gold medal. After a lifetime of near misses, it was his. Finally. 

_An Olympic gold medal._

Sherlock blinked twice in rapid succession, his mouth falling open in shock, and then he shook his head as he broke into a grin, falling forward a bit to rest his palms on his thighs. “Oh my god,” he whispered to himself.

Behind him, he could hear Greg shouting through the thick fog surrounding his head things like “Yes!” and “Bloody right!” and “Best in the world, right here!”

When Sherlock stood once more, his head still swimming, he realized he’d been surrounded: by other competitors--namely the silver and bronze medallists, his ski team, Greg, reporters, and about a dozen course officials who were trying their best to keep the peace.

Sherlock accepted and returned gracious hugs from the Swiss skier who’d managed silver and the American who had taken the bronze, ensuring that the cameras got the necessary shots of the three of them before he turned blankly in disbelief, to look at Greg. He felt completely lit up and somehow entirely numb at the same time, wholly unsure what to do with his limbs now that the necessary interactions had played out. 

He and Greg stared at one another for what felt like eons. 

Greg was silent, a grin plastered on his face, before he nodded, said, “Holy shit,” and charged at Sherlock, wrapping him up in a tight but careful hug, avoiding his ribs. “Holy shit, mate, holy shit.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed flatly and hugged back, allowing Greg to support his weight momentarily as finally, the shock wore off and the sensation flooded over him. “Greg,” he said, croakily.

“Yeah?” Greg pulled back, laughing, and looked him in the eye.

“...I won.”

“Yeah you did! Surprised with an ego like yours you’re having this much trouble accepting it. Sherlock Holmes won the fucking gold medal!” Greg shouted and gently lifted Sherlock’s arms up in the air in celebration. The crowd around them cheered once more. “Alright mate, you need to go speak with the press before you actually get that hunk of metal around your neck, think you can handle it?”

Sherlock blinked again and looked just over Greg’s shoulder to where John was sitting and their gazes caught and held. He gave a half smile and John returned it before jutting his chin in a “go ahead” gesture. Sherlock blushed, dipped his head and made his way across the snow to where the press had been corralled. 

He shuffled up to the backdrop sporting the NBC logo and watched as in slow motion, a microphone sped into his vision, held by a grinning, brunette sportscaster. “Shannon Rivera, NBC Sports, Sherlock, this was your final Olympics and you finally took gold, how does it feel?”

Sherlock swiped two fingers across his mouth and glanced down at the microphone, reality finally zooming back to regular speed. “It’s ah… it’s a bit unbelievable, truth be told. I’m overwhelmed, I worked my entire career for this and… I’m overwhelmed. It’s been my goal to take the gold at an Olympics and I’d come so close in the past and this is, it’s really an honor. I worked very hard for it.”

A hand appeared at his right, his sunglasses on offer and he snatched them up, sliding them onto his face without bothering to see who’d brought them. He sifted fingers through his hair, plastered a patient smile on his face and leaned in to hear the next question.

“There’s been some speculation that you were involved in an altercation with James Moriarty prior to his removal from the Games. Is there any truth to this statement?”

Sherlock shook his head, glancing to the right of the camera. “I really can’t make any comments regarding James Moriarty.”

“Can you tell us then, do you think he would have beaten you, had he skied?”

Sherlock ground his teeth and attempted to remain civil. “Again, I can’t make any comments regarding James Moriarty.”

She sighed and licked her lips, but managed to keep her newscaster grin plastered on her face. “You’ve been pretty banged up,” she maneuvered the microphone to point at his face. “Was that an accident on the course?”

“Hah, well, you know how intense training is, and this course is certainly one of the most dangerous I’ve ever skied,” Sherlock evaded, shooting her a carefully calm glare.

She grinned at him and nodded, though something flashed in her eyes, silently demanding he elaborate. Damned media, if it bled, it led, but he wasn’t getting sucked into it, this drama. “I’m a little banged up but obviously fine.”

Again, she nodded, “What was going through your head right before this race?”

“Well, knowing that this was my last Olympic race I vowed to pull out all of the stops, but once I began skiing it was as though… it was clear, it was all clear to me. I skied like I’d wanted to on this course, my body did what I asked of it, my team did what I asked of them and I won the gold.”

Her bright smile glinted in the sun. “This is a much different Sherlock Holmes than we usually see, what’s changed?”

Sherlock frowned, and licked his lips. He had his stock answer, his cold, controlled, post-race diatribe. But it was the last time he’d be giving an interview like this, and truth be told, things _had_ changed for him. He blew out a breath and considered. He felt the pain that was throbbing in his foot and his ribs flare back up and he acknowledged silently how close he’d come to death. 

“So much has changed, Shannon. So much. It’s been nearly two decades since I started doing this professionally and as it’s all coming to an end, yes, so much has changed. Thanks,” and with that, Sherlock ducked away to take another interview, another, and then another, evading questions and being courteous and gracious until the last of the television interviews had been dealt with. 

\---

With the help of Greg, Sherlock scheduled his sit-down interview with NBC and Bob Costas and one with Sue Barker and Mike Baker from the BBC. He was approached and interviewed quickly by several journalists for print pieces. ESPN cornered him about getting soundbites for a piece they were doing for a documentary series on Olympians and then he was being whisked away by a course official, towards the podium area.

“Congratulations, gentlemen,” the woman said kindly as Sherlock and the other two medalists where lined up, just a few feet away from the Olympic podium. Sherlock stood silent and ramrod-straight--surprised not that he was taking it all in but that he was becoming sentimental over it--and waited for the processional to begin. He’d been lined up just like this many times before, but he’d never been in the middle of the three. He’d never been poised to take the gold level on the podium. 

Glancing out at the bleachers, he saw they were packed with people, many waving flags. The Union Jack undulated and flapped in the wind and Sherlock felt a very brief pang of nationalistic honor.

As soon it had come it faded, and the triumphant trumpet music of the medalists’ procession kicked to life over the blaring speakers. There was an announcement in Russian and then an English translation, “Ladies and gentlemen, the medalists for men’s downhill skiing.” The American began walking and Sherlock shook himself mentally and followed right behind, walking and waving on autopilot until they were standing behind the podium. As one, they stepped up and took their places.

Wind whipped at Sherlock’s face and he glanced down at the ground, reminded of what John had texted him and noting that he was most certainly more than a meter and a half off of the ground. He laughed, then, looked up at the crisp, blue sky and released a breath, and leveled his gaze forward, back at the official who was about to present the medals.

The announcement came first in Russian and then, “Ladies and gentleman, the bronze medallist, Bode Miller of the United States of America!” The crowd went wild and Miller ducked to accept the medal around his neck, punching the air when he straightened.

“Ladies and gentleman, the silver medallist, Daniel Abrecht of Switzerland!” Again, the crowd cheered as Abrecht reacted much the same as Miller had, holding his medal in front of his face and jokingly pretending to take a bite out of it.

Sherlock’s stomach flipped and he found that suddenly, his hands were quivering just a bit; he was outside of his body, looking back at himself. He shifted his shoulders and schooled his face into a mask of tranquility, or as close to it as he could manage. He was about to have an Olympic gold medal hanging around his neck, a moment his entire life had led up to. Swallowing thickly, he heard, in a calm, leveled female voice, “Ladies and gentleman, the gold medallist, Sherlock Holmes of Great Britain!” 

Sherlock bent and accepted his medal, the synthetic lanyard falling heavy against his neck. His trailed his pointer and middle finger over the weight that rested against his chest. He glanced up and out at the all of the flags, at the people clapping and cheering for _him_ , before bringing his right hand to his heart as “God Save the Queen” began to play.

His throat felt tight, his eyes stung and he felt lighter than air, like he might fly away. There was a pressure in his chest, bright and warm, as though he’d burst from the sheer force of it. His pride swelled and he found himself grinning up at the Union Jack.

He took a deep breath and held it in his chest. This was the culmination of his life’s work; this was what he’d toiled so hard for. This is what he’d put his body through hell for. Sherlock felt the cool metal beneath his right hand and it was a struggle not to curl his fingers around it.

\---

There was another requisite round of photographs with the other medalists and various posed photographs with the Union Jack that Sherlock found rather pointless and silly, but he went through the motions and committed them to memory, as it was certainly the only time he’d be forced to go through them. Greg remained all the while, playing coach and agent.

It was a long few hours taking insufferable calls from his parents and Mycroft, another round of photographs for his sponsors, and an official portrait for the British ski team. Eventually, he was allowed to make his way back to his room, exhausted and wrung out. 

“Yeah, you know I get a cut of all of your endorsements this go round,” Greg joked as they exited the tram to head back to their respective hotels for the few hours’ rest they’d get.

Sherlock turned, walking backwards away from him, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and a mountain of food. “Oh?”

“You know, _not your coach_ , but as your coach and all...”

“Not sure that’s how it works,” Sherlock called.

“Oi, who handled all that scheduling, you arse? You’re definitely buying tonight!” Greg flicked his sunglasses up off of his eyes, as the sun was fading.

“Tonight?”

“Oh, we’re celebrating, Sherlock Holmes, we are celebrating. Gently, I mean, because you’re a _wreck_ at the moment, but we’re celebrating, I’ve made sure John knows as well, so don’t try and get out of it.” Greg called, twirling once with his hands in the air. “Go back, get some rest, take your pain meds and then prepare for a night of revelry.”

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, walking as briskly as was possible in his state towards his hotel.

\---

Sherlock took the elevator to his floor and rounded the corner towards his room and was delightfully surprised to find John leaning against his door. Blushing, he glanced down at his shoes, and looked back up to find John clasping his hands together and pumping them over either shoulder in a mock show of celebration.

“Oh look, it’s the great Sherlock Holmes! Please Mr. Holmes, can I have a photo, I’m your _biggest_ fan!”

“Shut up,” Sherlock growled, but picked up the pace towards his door. “And for your information, the gold podium is _not_ a meter and a half off of the ground,” Sherlock said once he reached John, gazing down into his grinning, upturned face.

“Naw,” John said, bouncing up onto the balls of his feet. “I was just flirting with you.” His right hand weaved its way into Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock dipped, kissing John lightly before John pulled away to brush their noses together.

His eyes slipped closed and there was nothing more he wanted than to drag John into his room and curl around him and not leave for days. Peeling his eyes back open to look at John, Sherlock’s stomach turned as he catalogued--for what felt like the hundredth time--the bruising all over John’s face. They’d both come so close to losing so much; that notion, combined with his injuries and the whirlwind of actually having won an Olympic race, had him positively exhausted, emotionally and physically.

Carefully, he rested his forehead on John’s shoulder. John’s hands went to the small of his back and he held Sherlock to him, silently, for a time. After a while he sighed, running a hand over Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock pulled his face away and smiled affectionately down at John.

John’s eyes seemed to twinkle in amazement and Sherlock swallowed, reserving the look to replay in his mind whenever he wanted. “You were… god, I’m a broken record. You were fucking brilliant, how do you feel?” John asked, all the while smoothing Sherlock’s hair away from his face.

“I am… I feel…” Sherlock blinked and brought his brow to rest upon John’s. “God, I could go for another Vicodin.”

“Just a tick,” John said and plucked Sherlock’s key from his hand, opening the door and ushering him inside. “I’ve got just what you need.” He produced a small bottle of pills from his coat pocket and portioned two out into his hand, dropping them into Sherlock’s palm.

Sherlock smiled tiredly, overcome with gratitude. He’d never wanted someone to take care of him before John. He’d never needed it. A dozen feelings whirled in his chest and he wasn’t at all surprised when a ball of emotion welled in his throat. “You are…”

“I am,” John murmured, walking up to Sherlock’s personal space and placing a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his neck. “Fucking a gold medalist, lucky me.”

Sherlock chuckled, dry-swallowing the Vicodin before reaching around John for a bottle of water that rested on an end table. “Yes, lucky you that I finally, finally-”

“ _Finally_ ,” John smeared into his skin before ripping himself away and smacking a quick kiss on Sherlock’s lips. “Seriously, though,” he took a breath, “am I allowed to say I’m proud of you? Have we known one another long enough? Is that… is that weird?”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock smiled and dropped another kiss playfully onto John’s mouth. “But I like it.”

John’s smile flickered and then turned into a grin. “Yeah, alright, well… you look, you need a shower.”

“I do,” Sherlock agreed, “I really do.”

John led him through the hall to the bathroom and sat down on the rim of the deep tub as Sherlock undressed. “How about,” he turned on the tap and tested the temperature. “A bath?”

“Shared?” Sherlock asked, peeking over his bare shoulder at John.

“If you’d like.”

“I’d like very much, if you’re up for it.”

“Ah, little painkillers and some hot water sounds just the ticket.” John stood and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s nape. “Couple of middle aged wrecks having a soak.”

“Speak for yourself, I’m a few years out, yet.” And he began on working John out of his clothes.

John sighed at the touch and leaned his head back to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Bath, and then I’ll retape your ribs and then a nap and then…”

“And then?” Sherlock asked, working his hands into the muscles of John’s upper back, careful to avoid any injured areas; John groaned and leaned into the touch and for a moment they just stood there in the middle of the bathroom, John with his trousers at his ankles and Sherlock massaging out the knots in his neck.

Rolling his shoulders, John stepped out of his trousers and turned, securing his palms on the swell of Sherlock’s hips and grinning up at him. “Then, Sherlock Holmes, you are going to celebrate. Properly. Well, as properly as you can with a fractured foot; come to think of it, we should see about getting you booted but... You’re going to party--conservatively!-- like a gold medallist should party.” John tapped his fingers against Sherlock’s skin and moved away.

“Oh? And how does a gold medalist party?”

John thought for a moment, pouring some bath liquid beneath the tap before crossing to the sink. Their eyes met in the mirror. “Dancing and tequila, I suppose.”

“Tequila? After all of this medication?”

“In moderation,” John assured and popped a pill into his own mouth, ducking to slurp some water from the faucet. “I’m a doctor, I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“Sounds irresponsible,” Sherlock tried, hopefully.

“You’re not getting out of it, at least not the dancing bit anyway,” John reached out and poked at him and then groaned, having twisted the wrong way. Sherlock gave him a pointed look to which he received a very vehement middle-fingered salute. “We’ll dance, you and I. I want to see your moves. And besides, everyone will be there, everyone will want to see you,” John’s voice dipped. “The _champion_.”

Sherlock’s face scrunched up and he bent woodenly, picked their clothes up from the floor and tossed them through the door towards the living area. “Sounds horrid.”

“Too bad,” John said and smacked him playfully on the behind. “Now, get in the tub, you utter arse.”

They settled down in the hot water, John behind Sherlock, who relaxed in the vee of his thighs. “Is this alright?”

“Yeah, I’ll let you know if it begins to hurt.”

Sherlock rested his back lightly against John’s chest and felt some of the tension drain from his body. What an incredible turn of events, he thought for the umpteenth time, stumbling across _this_ , this wonderful man. This wonderful man he’d almost _lost_. “Mmm, I never asked how _you_ are, s’a bit shit of me.”

“I’ve had worse, and the painkillers do their job. All of that combined with all of this excitement, I’d forgotten about it a bit. Yeah, thanks for bringing it up, actually.” John splashed at him and Sherlock chuckled, splashing back, as they fell into silence. 

It struck Sherlock how intimate it all was, reclining in the bath, naked and very vulnerable, with someone he’d only known a few days. But like how he’d felt the first time he’d strapped on a pair of skis, being with John Watson felt immeasurably right. It felt right in the way that it lodged in his bones, set his teeth on edge when he was without, left him wanting and craving. 

There was so much to talk about with John, so much to discover; Sherlock found that he wanted to know about John’s childhood, his first kiss, his favorite flavor of ice cream and a dozen more mundane details. He reminded himself then that it was perfectly acceptable to want those things with John, because John wanted those things with him. 

John _wanted_ him, for keeps.

“I was thinking,” Sherlock began, his chest feeling much too small to encase his heart, in that moment. 

“Of…” John asked, trailing his fingers through the sparse bubbles that were left bobbing in the water. 

“I’ll rent a new room,” Sherlock murmured, following John’s fingertips with his own in the water..

“Oh?”.

“Yes, in Barcelona.”

“Spain?”

“No _another_ Barcelona,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “A week, we’ll nap all afternoon and I’ll tend to your wounds and we’ll eat nothing but paella and drinking nothing but wine.”

“Romantic,” John hummed. “But Sherlock, you know I don’t-”

Sherlock shook his head in the crook of John’s neck. “Whatever you’re about to say, don’t. Just… come away with me for a week.”

“And what about that Italian place you promised me in London?” John settled his palm on Sherlock’s thigh, beneath the water.

Sherlock peered down at it, and slid his own atop John’s. “It’ll keep.”

“Will it?”

“It will. Angelo will be thrilled I’ve finally brought someone along.”

“You’ve never taken a date there?”

“No, no I haven’t.” Sherlock said, very quietly. “You’ll be the first.”

“Oh,” John said, clearing his throat primly. “And erm, just out of curiosity, how will you introduce me?”

Sherlock thought for a moment, touched by John’s slight insecurity, feeling warm to the tips of his ears with it. “Oh, I suppose as John Watson.”

“Yeah,” John agreed, thinking that was the end of it.

“My….” Sherlock sighed, “Mine, just… just mine.”

“Yeah,” John said and Sherlock could hear the smiled in his voice. “Alright.”

\---

After their lengthy bath and a rinse, they nestled down beside one another and were out almost immediately as their heads hit the pillows. When they awoke four hours later, John checked Sherlock’s taped ribs and John taught Sherlock how to properly look over his injuries, then they had a bit of a lazy snog until John determined it was time for them to get up and get ready to go out.

“Or, we could stay here and I could suck your cock,” Sherlock suggested.

“No.”

“For hours,” he added.

“Hah, no, nice try, now get up, it’s got to take you ages to fix that hair.” John made a vague gesture towards Sherlock’s head and pulled on his trousers. 

“And what does that mean?”

“Please, you’re high maintenance and don’t try to deny it.”

Sherlock laughed, rolled slowly and carefully over onto his stomach and smooshed his face into the pillow momentarily. When he came up for air, he found that John had rounded the bed and was securing his watch on his wrist. “And where are you going?”

John took at look at himself in the mirror, touched the corner of his black eye and frowned. “First to try and find some concealer, I think. And then… back to _my_ room to change into clothes suitable,” John bent and brought his lips to Sherlock’s ear, “to grinding against handsome men in dark corners.”

Sherlock groaned and pressed his face back into the pillow, delighting in John’s answering laughter. John dropped a kiss into Sherlock’s hair and made to leave, but not before Sherlock turned and called out to stop him.

“You know, I quite like you.”

John smiled and shoved his keys into his pocket. “I quite like you too… boyfriend.”

“No!” Sherlock said immediately.

John just laughed and waved him off. “Alright, alright, just trying it on for size.”

Sherlock groaned, “Go away.”

“So I shouldn’t tell Greg that my boyfriend is taking me to Barcelona?”

Sherlock hurled a pillow in John’s direction as hard as he could manage, but John was able to escape unscathed. “Don’t forget to ice that foot!” he called over his shoulder before rushing to close the door behind him. 

\---

They ended up at the same bar they had gone to the first day they were in Sochi. Upon Sherlock’s arrival, the entire place turned almost as one and cheered him. He had to make a shooing gesture while giving an annoyed glare at the crowd to get them to settle down. Inside however, his ego thrilled at the welcome.

Molly was the first to stumble her way up to him, slinging an arm around his waist and steering him in the direction of their booth. “Can you drink? Are you… allowed to drink? Oh god, am I hurting you?” She released him and then looked up at him, blinked and burst into tears. 

“Boss, I’m so proud of you,” and then she was pressing her mouth against his in a kiss. “After all these years, oh Sherlock, oh I’m just so proud, and John! And you found John! And!”

“Alright Mol, alright,” Greg appeared and tucked her into his chest. “She’s had a few. Took you long enough to get here!”

“I’m just… so happy!” Molly hiccoughed and Greg smoothed her hair back, settling her in the booth. 

“Where’s John? And _are_ you allowed to drink?” Greg brought his beer to his mouth and finished it off, refilling the glass with water from the pitcher on the table and pushing it towards Molly, who accepted gratefully.

“John is on his way, I believe and he said-” Sherlock paused abruptly as Greg waggled his eyebrows at him. 

“That how it is? He giving you orders?” Greg winked.

“Christ-he is a _doctor_ , I’ll defer to his advice, you letch.” Just then there was another, quieter cheer as John walked into the bar. Molly made to get up but Greg patted her on the shoulder and went to bring John over to the table.

He was all smiles, the color high on his cheeks, and he was wearing a tight, forest green tee-shirt that Sherlock found very distracting. Until now he’d seen John in his delegation gear, his comfortable but atrocious-looking jumpers and worn jeans. Now, the jeans he wore were tighter and hugged his arse in all of the right ways. “Looks like everyone turned up!” he said, covertly squeezing Sherlock’s side as he rounded him. “Good crowd.”

“Is he allowed to drink?” Greg asked immediately, filling his glass for Molly once more.

John looked Sherlock up and down. “You took the last one about seven hours ago? Hm, one should be alright, but if you start feeling odd, cut yourself off.”

“Brilliant!” Greg said and disappeared to the bar. 

“Hey Molly!” John greeted, ducking to kiss her on the cheek and she burst into tears again, startling John. 

Sh grabbed his forearm to stop him from pulling away. “I just, he’s been alone for so _long_ John!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Oh, god.” He slid into the booth across from Molly. “We’re not telling anyone yet Molly so it would be-”

“I’m sorry, I know, I really am just happy, happy, happy. Even after that bastard Moriarty and all of that, you know. You have John and I have Greg now and thank you, Sherlock, for letting me be a part of all of this!” Her head went to her hands, which were splayed out on the table, and John grinned as he slid in next to her, Molly cuddling up to his side. He mouthed “She’s drunk,” and Sherlock nodded, chuckling silently.

John’s right arm went around her side and his palm rested on the table. Sherlock smirked at him and reached across, squeezing it quickly, a tiny show of affection. “Happy, happy, happy,” Sherlock said.

“Happy, happy, happy,” John returned. 

“Oh, oh just fuck off,” Molly slurred and giggled nudging John gently in the side. “I still,” she lifted her head and glared at Sherlock. “I want to see that medal, I want to hold it, wanna see how much it weighs.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “That can be arranged.”

“Because no one waxes your skis like I do.”

“No one,” he agreed, and thanked Greg when he placed a vodka soda with two limes down in front of him. Greg slid a pint across to John and took a sip of his own, jostling Sherlock over as he seated him across from Molly in the booth. 

“To Sherlock Holmes, bastard finally lived up to his hype,” Greg toasted, raising his glass and they all followed suit and drank. “Now, I do believe a celebration calls for dancing, yeah?”

“Oh, yes,” John agreed, and Molly nodded her head where it rested against his shoulder.

Greg slapped a handful of quarters down on the table. “Well, let’s get this party started!” And with that he snatched up a few coins and went to the jukebox. A moment later, synth pumped through the sound system and the opening strains of “It’s Raining Men” had people laughing and moving onto the small dancefloor.

“Dear god, Greg’s taste leaves something to be desired,” John said as Molly wiggled away and moved to get out of the booth.

“Terrible taste in music,” she agreed. “But he’s fit as hell, so.”

They watched as Molly did an exaggerated shimmy and hooked two fingers into Greg’s trousers. She went up on tiptoe, whispered something in his ear and he doubled over in laughter. He lifted his head and waved at them, “Get the fuck over here!”

John licked his lips, raised a brow and glanced back at Sherlock, who dipped his head as he grinned. They both got up out of the booth and headed towards Greg and Molly on the shadowy dance floor.

“I believe you promised me some grinding in a dark corner,” Sherlock murmured from behind him, close to John’s ear.

“Mmm, who’s to say you’re the handsome man I was talking about?” came John’s coquettish reply and Sherlock barked a laugh and leaned in to nip the crest of his ear. 

“You’re not coming with me to Barcelona,” Sherlock said even as he spun around in front of John, dancing to the absurd song.

“Yes,” John shouted as people sang along with the chorus, dancing for a moment up on Greg. “I am!”

Sherlock grinned, growled and brought John in close, their hips swaying in time as much as their injuries would allow as bodies moved to the beat around them.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d been back in London for a month and a half, and Sherlock was just managing to take John out on a proper date.

It was drizzling when they left Angelo’s, giggly from the abundance of free wine that had been foisted upon them. “You’re right, that was amazing,” John said warmly, his arm brushing up against Sherlock’s as they walked across the pavement.

Sherlock grinned down at John, pressing his body in as close as he was able. “The only place for Italian in this city, in my opinion.”

“Very _high_ opinion,” John added, giving in and linking their arms together.

They’d been back in London for a month and a half, and Sherlock was just managing to take John out on a proper date. They’d met for coffee a few times, at a cafe of one of Sherlock’s contacts, well north of the city where no one was likely to recognize them; they took to holding hands beneath cafe tables like teenagers. Sherlock’s publicist had urged him to wait a few months before coming out about his relationship with John and he’d reluctantly agreed. He supposed it made sense; there were wounds that were still rather fresh, and they were still making sense of what had happened with Moriarty. It had been difficult, returning to England after the stress and emotional and physical tolls they’d experienced in Sochi.

But the ten days in Spain had been refreshing for them. Sherlock had made good on his promise to tend to John’s wounds while in Barcelona, and John had begrudgingly let him. He bathed and soothed John in a private villa on the outskirts of the city. Incognito, they walked the cobblestone streets by night and had their fill of fine food and wine; they made slow, careful love on a private balcony beneath the stars.

They both came back to London a quarter of a stone heavier, with the hint of a tan.

Once returned, they’d had to take three weeks apart--Sherlock finally doing his sit down interviews, traveling to New York for ESPN and creating a website for his surprisingly well sought after consulting practice, and John searching for locum work and attending physical therapy. They had finally found a night free and John had arrived at Baker Street with an overnight bag and a bashful grin. “Hope I’m not being too presumptuous,” he’d said and they’d nearly missed their reservation to snog on the couch.

Now, Sherlock raised a hand and hailed a cab, making sure John was tucked inside before climbing in himself. 

“Two twenty-one Baker Street,” John gave the address to the cabbie and grinned over at Sherlock, twining their fingers together on the bench seat of the taxi as they settled in. “Thank you,” John whispered across the short distance. “It’s been ages since I’ve had a proper date, been wined and dined like that.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand lightly. “What was Barcelona, then?” he asked with a smirk.

“Ha, that was a sex holiday. But this, I could get used to this.” John gripped Sherlock’s hand in return.

They remained silent for a bit, until the cabbie interrupted the tranquility. “Oi, ain’t you that bloke that won the gold in skiing?”

Sherlock watched John’s lips twist in a smile. After his success at the Olympic Games, Sherlock had become a bit of a heroic figure at home. John had become the recipient of rants on that very subject via text message; he always replied, You can’t still be surprised that people love you, to which Sherlock never responded. 

“I,” Sherlock sighed in response, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yes, yes I am.”

“Knew it!” the cabbie said, punching the steering wheel. “Knew it, me and the missus were cheering you on. Congratulations!”

John snickered louder, looking out the window. Sherlock pulled his hand out from under John’s and slapped at John’s thigh in irritation which only caused him to laugh harder.

“Yes, thank you very much,” Sherlock said graciously and at a peal of John’s giddy laughter, leaned his head against the cool window with a groan.

\---

They climbed the stairs up to 221B very slowly; neither one of them seemed to want to rush the evening. Sherlock was rather enamored with the idea of taking his time with all of this, as they had done in Spain. Sherlock had had John’s body many times already, had traced the scars with his tongue, the length of muscles with his fingers, but he still felt as though he needed longer, more intense study. He needed days, weeks, _years_ , he needed John splayed out and mapped completely.

Sherlock wanted to know every ridge, valley, and freckle.

Sherlock glanced at the back of John’s form as he climbed the steps, from the hard line of his shoulders, to his capable, strong hands, to the solid bulk of his thighs. Every time he looked at John it felt as though it was the first; every time John laughed Sherlock’s heart stuttered, every time John touched him, he craved more. He’d never tire of John, never tire of his body or his mind, his personality or his eccentricities.

Sherlock was overcome with the desire to prove that to John now, using his own body, his cock and his mouth and his fingers. He wanted to translate what was residing in his heart and mind in a way that left no room for interpretation.

He skipped up the last few steps, following John, and tossed the door closed with finality. Once inside the flat, Sherlock shed his coat and hung John’s, watching while John glanced around the room. “Violin?” John asked as he came upon the case. “You play?”

“I do,” Sherlock said, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Course you do,” John said beneath his breath, fingers trailing over the case. “Any good?”

“Very good.”

John’s grin was magnificent. “Yeah, I’m going to need you to play for me, and soon. Those fingers… doing that…”

John chuckled and continued to glance around, touching things here and there until he turned towards the fireplace. Sherlock watched as his eyes settled on the mantle. “You put your medal in a shadowbox? How _sentimental_.” John crooned and crossed to it, picking up the small box and examining the contents.

“Mycroft did,” Sherlock said, in explanation. “Seemed to think it suitable.”

John replaced the piece on the mantle. “I quite agree. It deserves a place of prominence. And next to your skull, does it keep watch?”

“ _He_ ,” Sherlock said with a smile, passing through to the kitchen. “Keeps an ever-watchful eye over the entire flat.”

“Right,” John laughed and crossed to stand in between the two rooms. “Not creepy at all.”

Sherlock shot him a dazzling grin over his shoulder as he plucked a bottle of wine out of his modest rack. “Will this suit?” Holding the bottle up for John’s inspection, he stepped closer, wrapping a hand around John’s hip.

“Trying to get me properly drunk?”

Sherlock leaned in, dragging his nose back and forth through the short hair at John’s brow. “Of course.”

John went up on his tip toes and dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, snatching the bottle from his hand and disappearing into the kitchen to open it. Sherlock worked on building a fire while they let the wine breathe, while John puttered around the flat, glancing over this and that, making comments about the general oddness things. “Not that I don’t find it charming. It’s rather… eclectic.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock returned and poured them each a glass and then took a seat on the sofa; John wasn’t far behind.

They fell into a companionable silence, the only sound the hiss and crackle of the fire in the hearth. Content for awhile to simply enjoy being close to one another, Sherlock slipped further over on the couch, his thigh pressing into John’s, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he draped his arm along the back, tucking John into his side.

John rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee and took a long pull from his glass before setting it down and turning his attention to his left. He watched Sherlock for a moment, while Sherlock took a few hasty sips of his own wine. John’s right cheek jumped in a smile and Sherlock took another gulp of the alcohol, suddenly overcome with a bit of nerves.

John looked so intent, as though he had something planned. Reaching forward, he plucked the glass from Sherlock and placed it alongside his on the coffee table, sidling right up to Sherlock immediately after, his nose trailing along behind Sherlock’s hairline. He heard John sigh and then suddenly, John was straddling Sherlock’s legs, his arse settling back on his knees.

“You know, I’m fully healed now,” John murmured eventually, deep and low, predatory.

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, his eyes falling closed, and ran his hands up and down John’s sides, pausing to cup his hips. “Mmm, yes, that I can see.”

“That said,” John’s lips trailed from behind Sherlock’s ear before he sat back, bent and ran his upper teeth lightly over Sherlock’s Adam’s apple. “I’ve had you, isn’t time you have me?”

Sherlock pulled away and blinked, arrested for a moment by the light from the fire playing against John’s features. When he finally made eye contact with John, the only words he could manage were, “You’d… like me to?”

John grinned wolfishly. “I’d _love_ you to,” he growled and then pressed himself back in so they were chest to chest. “I want you to fuck me.”

“Oh.”

John dragged his lips up the length of Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s all I can think about,” he said, voice taking on a dark, velvety quality. “Your strong thighs flush against my arse, your fingers inside of me, your mouth opening me, yeah, that’s what I want.” His teeth nibbled slowly over the lobe of Sherlock’s right ear before sucking deliberately. “Does that sound alright?”

“Hah,” Sherlock’s eyes peeled open and he moved his hands from John’s hips to his shoulders, pushing him away. “Get undressed and get in my bed _now_.”

John grinned and nearly jumped out of Sherlock’s lap and moved towards the kitchen, snapping up his duffel bag on the way. Sherlock admired his retreating form and after pressing his hand to his erection to rearrange it a bit, tamed the fire for the evening. Then he followed in John’s footsteps, shutting the lights as he went, locking up, ensuring that they wouldn’t be disturbed.

Once he reached the threshold to his room, he drew to a stop, watching in silence as John shed his pants and placed them neatly on top of his other folded clothes on top of a chair. Sherlock’s heart lurched painfully as John turned slightly, fidgeted with his hands, took a step towards the bed and then away, as though trying to figure out what he should do with himself.

It was _adorable_ and Sherlock let it continue for a moment longer before making his presence known. “John.”

“Oh, that was quick.”

“I suppose,” he returned and stepped into the room, quietly shutting the door behind him. Sherlock toed off his shoes easily during the four steps it took to reach John. Once they were face to face Sherlock dipped pressing his lips beneath John’s left eye, fluttering a kiss there as his hands once more found the curve of John’s hips and held.

They stood like that for a long moment, holding one another, drinking the moment in.

“I want you so much,” John whispered, sounding pained, and wet his lips with his tongue.

Sherlock moved then, pressing his mouth to John’s in a slow, tender kiss. “I’ve not wanted anyone like I want you.”

“Yeah?” John asked, breathlessly, his eyes closed, lips perked in a tentative smile.

Sherlock smiled back, unseen by John. “Yes,” he said and pressed his mouth to John’s brow. “Now, I believe I said _in_ my bed, John.”

With a little chuckle, John fell back onto the bed, levering himself up on his elbows and watching as Sherlock neatly shed his own clothes. He took care undressing, undoing cuffs and buckles easily and fluidly, folding and draping his clothing properly so as not to cause any undue wrinkles. He made a show of it, walking to the cupboard to hang up his trousers; he knew that John loved to watch the muscles of his back and arse move and thus he gave him a bit of a show, bending perhaps a bit too far while opening the door. 

Once nude, Sherlock got into the bed, immediately draping himself over John’s body. John tipped his chin up, waiting, but Sherlock was content to look his fill, gaze skating up and down John’s torso leisurely. “You want my mouth?”

“Yes,” John groaned, bucking up, their cocks rubbing together. Sherlock dipped and captured John’s lips in a sloppy kiss, their tongues languid and heavy, but the touch of their hands needy and rushed. “Yes, god, yes _please_ ,” John said again, against Sherlock’s mouth, threading his fingers deeply into Sherlock’s thick curls. 

Sherlock felt heavy and full with arousal, buoyed on by John’s little gasps and moans. His fingers made their way across John’s chest, trailing through the sparse hair and lingering to run his teeth over the ridges of John’s collarbones. Only then did Sherlock move, dropping his mouth to the right nipple and suckling gently. His teeth scraped against the pebbled flesh and from the sound John made, Sherlock could imagine John flinging a forearm over his eyes, an attempt to hold the pleasure at bay.

Sherlock peeked up at John’s face, delighted to see that he’d been right, that John had covered his eyes with his arm and was silently cursing to himself. He chuckled against John’s left nipple as he moved to give it the same attention and that drew a groan from John, the vibrations from his laughter having caused a pleasurable rumble against John’s skin. 

Fingers made their way to the flesh at John’s hips and Sherlock slid down, trailing kisses and tongue all the way, making a point to glance up at John in that moment. Sherlock knew the effect it had on him, when he was poised to take John's cock into his mouth, the way John liked to see the desire in his eyes just before contact. After a moment, John tore his arm away from his face and glanced down, groaning loudly at the sight of Sherlock, mouth open and waiting.

“Jesus fuck, you are-”

“Yes?” Sherlock asked, his bottom lip mere centimeters from the head of John’s cock, his breath surely brushing over the hot flesh.

“A fucking dream, jesus christ, fucking… brilliant,” John said and Sherlock grinned, pleased with the compliment, and then he curled the fingers of his right hand around John’s prick and brought it greedily to his mouth. 

Sherlock loved this, loved having John hot and hard between his lips. From the taste of John’s flesh to the sounds he could draw by flicking his tongue just _so_ to the grip of John’s fingers in his hair, Sherlock loved sucking John off. He was so delightfully responsive and never shy, never hesitated to pump his hips gently when he wanted more, never thought twice about coming all over Sherlock’s face. John Watson’s cock was such a gorgeous and responsive part of John’s body and Sherlock absolutely _craved_ it, this, having the ability to turn John wordless and wanton. 

He lavished attention on John’s testicles, testing the heft of each one in turn, darting roguishly behind to press wet kisses against John’s perineum. He ran the flat of his tongue slowly up the underside of John’s cock, licking teasingly all the while, before suckling at the end, tonguing the beads of precome that had gathered and savoring them for a brief moment. He teased John, gathering his foreskin up and over before allowing it to retract once more, the tip of his tongue flicking against the frenulum.

Heat thudded in Sherlock’s veins, the desire rendering his thoughts thick and liquid. Testing his limits, Sherlock slid down as far as he was able, the smooth tip of John’s prick just bumping at his throat and he exhaled, slipping down impossibly further. The resulting gasp from John was worth the slight discomfort, and on the upstroke Sherlock sucked, hard. Pulling off, he kissed the tip lewdly, his mouth forming a plump little heart. It was all for John’s indulgence, the show Sherlock put on. 

John breathlessly drew his knees up, allowing Sherlock better access, but even as he did, Sherlock knew he’d be unable to lavish the proper attention on John in the position he was in. 

“Here,” Sherlock urged, helping John to roll over onto his stomach; he grabbed a pillow and together they worked it under John’s hips, careful of the heavy erection that hung between his quivering thighs. “Yes, god, perfect,” Sherlock hummed as his palms reached out to grasp John’s arsecheeks. He squeezed experimentally, jiggled them together and John giggled. With a little smirk, Sherlock lifted this left hand and brought it down on John’s arsecheek in a light and playful slap. “None of that now.”

John grunted in return, his hips shifting over the pillow, his head resting on his folded arms, waiting for Sherlock to have his way. He pulled John apart with his thumbs, experimentally dipping the right pad in and over John's furled flesh, pushing slightly against the resistance. “Reach over into the bedside table,” Sherlock directed, never taking his eyes off of John’s hole, and a moment later a small bottle bounced against the mattress at his left.

“Good,” Sherlock said, dragging it closer. “But first…”

He dipped, taking a quick sip of air through his nose, _smelling_ John, and then striped his tongue from the back of John’s testicles up and over the center of him in one, long pass. John’s hips hitched forward and he swore loudly, almost immediately pressing his thighs and buttocks back on the pillow, desperate for more. Sherlock obliged, settling down on his elbows and pressing in.

Sherlock lapped at him wetly, noting the musky sweet taste. He worked spit to the front of his mouth and laved it up and over John with a careful, insistent tongue. They’d not done this before, but Sherlock was sure they would again. This too, he found he loved, having John open and vulnerable beneath him, desperate for the touch of his tongue. He sank in even further, his cheekbones pressed by the firmness of John’s arsecheeks, and Sherlock _devoured_ him, wanted to get closer, deeper, in.

John was responsive to a point that it sounded like he was in pain; his wails came, loud and unbidden and Sherlock had to press an arm across his lower back and keep him from bucking into his face too forcefully. It was a wholly beautiful sight.

Pulling back, Sherlock spit and then used two fingers to work against the wetness, slicking it over his hole without any real pressure. John’s body twitched and Sherlock took that moment to press the pad of his index finger inside, curling the tip just so, letting John acclimate to the stretch. 

John went suddenly still and silent and Sherlock froze, waiting for John to speak up.

The heat around his fingertip was encompassing and Sherlock couldn’t help but extrapolate the pressure that was gripping his digit to think about what it would feel like wrapped around his cock. It was nearly too much, and he felt his cock throb almost painfully at the thought.

“More,” John croaked after a moment and Sherlock’s breath left him in one, long heave of exhalation. With his free hand he palmed the lubricant and slicked up the crease of John’s arse, the fluid sliding down to pool around Sherlock’s finger. With care, Sherlock pulled out right to the tip and sank slowly back in, the resistance he felt giving way after a few strokes.

Sherlock worked him patiently, not giving in to John’s insistent demands for more, instead slowly wringing the pleasure out of him, until his back was slick and gleaming with perspiration and he was keening out in need. Only after he’d managed to reduce the resistance when he’d added a third finger did he crook his hand and allow himself to brush purposefully over John’s prostate.

“Okay,” John gasped brokenly, turning his head as far as he was able, straining to see Sherlock. “Enough, I’m going to, god, enough, inside me, _inside_.”

Sherlock immediately pulled away, wiping his fingers haphazardly on the bedsheet and poured a small pool of slick into the center of his palm. “How?” Sherlock asked breathlessly, his fingers wrapping around his length, giving it a few glorious pumps. 

The pillow beneath John’s hips went flying off of the bed as he tossed it and turned, shimmying up onto his knees facing Sherlock. He leaned in, capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own in a breathless, heated kiss. Their knees knocked and John’s hand flicked at Sherlock’s, batting it away in order to grip Sherlock’s cock. His fingers curled and slid, tickling along the underside before he ran his palm over the wetness at the tip, spreading it about. “On your back, wanna see you.”

Sherlock’s pupils blew wide at the thought of John on top of him, around him, and he complied quickly which resulted in him maneuvering a bit awkwardly in long limbs. He tossed two pillows against the headboard and leaned back against them, splaying his thighs wide as his hand went to his cock again. 

John grinned, the color high in his cheeks, and positioned himself so that his knees were on either side of Sherlock’s thighs. In this position they were nearly eye to eye. 

“Haven’t done this in awhile,” John said as he dipped and dropped and affectionate kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, wriggling a hand between them to grip Sherlock and hold him steady at his entrance. 

John pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s and let his weight guide him down. It was one, long, luxurious moment of John enveloping him until he was fully seated inside. Sherlock grit his teeth at the sensation, overwhelmed by the heat and the pressure, his hands going to frame John’s face, tilt it up from where he’d dropped it to watch Sherlock slip inside, to be able to look him in the eye. “John.”

“God, fuck,” John too was gritting his teeth, the corners of his eyes pinched in pain. “Give me a minute, you’re… christ you’re bigger than you feel.”

“Than I feel?” Sherlock asked, lost in the haze of lust.

“In my hand, in my mouth,” John panted and inched his knees just a bit further apart; he tipped forward, their brows coming gently together once more. “Okay, god… Sherlock.”

Sherlock swallowed and looked at John--his face so close--from beneath his lashes. “You feel…”

John puffed hot breath onto his cheek as Sherlock searched for words. “Right. You feel… god, John, _right_.”

It took a bit of fumbling and maneuvering but John managed to capture Sherlock’s lips and in that instant, began to move. His body slid perfectly over Sherlock’s, slowly at first, his knees pressing into Sherlock’s thighs with each movement, body halting on the upstroke until just the glans was inside. 

Sherlock’s hands, which had been on John’s face, moved to bracket John’s hips and then slipped down to cup his arse, pulling him open. Sherlock was lost to the sensation of John clenching around him, the delicious drag and pull of his body and the feeling of the muscles working beneath John’s skin. 

John’s movements were shallow and when he brought his mouth to Sherlock’s the angle was slightly off, making it a bit awkward. So too were Sherlock’s attempts to wrap a hand around John’s weeping prick, but they made it work, huffing out breathy laughter when their noses would knock, groaning when John tilted his pelvis just so and managed to sink down all the way. 

Sherlock felt the pressure coiling at the base of his spine, the telltale sign that release wasn’t far off and in an attempt to slow John down, Sherlock brought a hand up to curl around his neck, the nail from his thumb scratching just faintly over John’s Adam’s apple. “Slow, god John, slower.”

“Oh,” John said in a gust and slid down and back, his arse completely flush with Sherlock’s thighs. They fell together then in a kiss, John licking in greedily, taking and taking until Sherlock was breathless and dizzy. “Oh god, I think I-”

“What?” Sherlock whispered, his forehead slicking against John’s. “What?”

“So glad I found this, found you,” and he captured Sherlock’s mouth again, moaning into it as Sherlock managed to wrap his fingers around John’s cock and began to stroke. They moved in tandem for a few moments, finding a rhythm of sorts until John tipped his pelvis down and back and his head lolled on his shoulders. “You, you first,” he said and peeled Sherlock’s fingers away, lacing them with his own in a tight, hot, _sure_ grip. 

Sherlock felt a bead of sweat roll down his temple and just as he did, John leaned forward and licked it up with an eager tongue. He was muttering under his breath, body moving at a frantic pace against Sherlock. His free hand wrapped around the back of Sherlock’s neck and held.

They were both slick with sweat, desperate for release, and when John leaned forward and bit Sherlock’s ear, Sherlock’s couldn’t help but buck up and meet him, thrust for thrust. The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud and lewd in the relative quiet of the room and it only served to ramp up Sherlock’s arousal. God, this was brilliant, it was fantastic, it was _everything_.

Sensation pitched up his spine and Sherlock dug his fingers into John’s skin, fuzzily hoping that he would wear his fingerprints beneath his clothes for days. “Oh god, John, John, I-”

“Yeah,” John growled, gritting his teeth for a brief moment before twisting his head and biting at Sherlock’s neck. “Yeah, do it.”

Sherlock’s body tensed, neck going taut, and he slammed his head back against the headboard but registered no pain; Sherlock’s right hand dug into John’s hip while the other clamped down hard around John’s fingers. He came in wringing waves, his torso straining up, trying to get closer to John, to burrow inside, lose himself in John’s body. He gasped for breath, sucked in deep lungfuls of air and then cried out as John’s body gripped him and wrung the last of the pleasure from him as he shivered and bucked, verging on oversensitive.

“My god,” Sherlock gasped, “oh my god.”

“Yeah,” John agreed with a gasp and a lick of his lips. “Yes.” 

John smiled down at him and Sherlock blew a tuft of hair out of his eyes and smiled back. They met in the middle in a languid press of mouths. “Now,” Sherlock said against his mouth, “lie back.”

“But-”

“I don’t care about the bedspread, lie back,” and John did as told, slowly easing himself down on the bed. Sherlock hissed when he slipped out, but then he unfurled, knees cracking as he struggled up onto them and spread himself out over John. “Yes,” he hissed before dipping and sucking John down in one, lewd slurp.

“Fuck christ, Sherlock, ah!” Immediately, John’s hands went to Sherlock’s hair and held. He rocked fluidly into Sherlock’s mouth, his breath hitching as he hit the back of Sherlock’s throat. 

Sherlock’s left hand held John’s hip while the other cradled his damp testicles, rolling them in time with the pulls of his mouth. Still, John seemed restrained; he wasn’t bucking up or keening out, and it prickled at Sherlock. “Oh, don’t hold back now,” he pulled off to growl and then pressed a knuckle over John’s perineum, slick with come. 

There was no warning save for the tightening of his hand in Sherlock’s hair, and John came, spurting hot and fast into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock did his best to keep up swallowing, but a bit managed to dribble out over his lips; he chased it with a tongue, just in time for a stripe to paint his chin in the last of John’s release. 

Sitting back, Sherlock made to wipe at the mess with the back of his hand, but John was darting up, breath heaving as he leaned in to lick over Sherlock’s face with an enthusiastic tongue, spreading the slippery release around on his skin before lapping it up. Sherlock’s cock gave a twitch at both the sensation and the knowledge that he was cleaning his come off of Sherlock’s face. “Fuck,” John breathed, hot against his cheek. 

“Fuck,” Sherlock said, curling his arms around John’s back and pulling him down to the bed. “Indeed.”

“Hah.” John passed the back of his hand over his brow and tugged at one of the stacked pillows, dragging it across the bed to flop down on it. It took them both a moment but Sherlock cleaned them up with a handful of tissues and though they were in need of a shower, Sherlock silently decided that it could wait until the absolutely delicious, encroaching afterglow wore off. 

On rubbery limbs they managed to unruck the last of the bedclothes and slip beneath them, both avoiding the rather sizeable wet spot. They each pressed themselves into a pillow, facing one another, just staring, revelling, basking in the ensuing rush of endorphins. 

“I was right,” John said sleepily after a time.

“About what?”

“Those fucking skier’s thighs, _very_ good for the purposes of fucking,” John said dreamily.

Sherlock barked out a laugh and continue to stare at John, whose eyes were slowly fluttering closed. He looked entirely, completely _right_ , tuckered out in Sherlock’s bed. His insides twisted at the thought of the right side of his spacious bed unoccupied, John gone from it. Sherlock was shocked to discover in that instant that he wanted John in his bed not just for the evening, but _always_ , and not just in a sexual sense; he wanted his terrible jumpers in his cupboard and his medical journals cluttering up the sitting room. He wanted--no-- _needed_ to find out John’s taste in mugs for tea, and how he might rearrange the refrigerator and where he would leave the mail after retrieving it in the afternoon. He wanted John consulting on cases with him, wanted his input, wanted him to be involved in the work.

He wanted John to be involved in _everything_.

Sherlock Holmes wanted John forever, wanted him properly, domestically and romantically. Sherlock swallowed against the shock of the realization and briefly considered whether it was too soon to voice such a desire, especially given the circumstances.

And then John snuffled in his sleepy state and Sherlock’s heart split right down the center. 

“John,” Sherlock said, throat thick with the sudden onslaught of emotion, his head resting in his upturned palm.

“Mmm, sex coma, can’t talk,” John huffed quietly, face smooshed into the pillow.

Sherlock chuckled, stretched and spread his free hand over the small of John’s back. “Then just listen. You like my flat, this flat. And… you live too far away. Live here.”

John peeked his face out, one eye assessing Sherlock. “What are you on about?

“Move in with me,” Sherlock said again, with a shy but giddy smile. “Your bedsit is tiny and depressing-”

“Hey, you’ve never seen my place!” came the token protest. 

“John,” Sherlock said, louder, with more intent. “Move in with me.”

He frowned and considered Sherlock, taking a moment to glance over his face. “And deal with your strange clients and bizarre cases at all hours of the night… I have read the website you know.”

“John-”

“And then I’ll definitely have to call you my boyfriend,” John said, voice stronger, more sure, and grinned. 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, his thumb pressing into the flesh of John’s back. “I was thinking I could call you… my partner.”

“Oh?”

“This line of work is… not without the threat of danger. The Met does ask me to consult on traumatic cases, murder scenes and the like. Not to say that I _need_ the help, mind, but… well, you’re an army doctor.”

“I am,” John said, dubious.

“A fairly good army doctor.”

“ _Very_ good,” John corrected, his interest piqued. He maneuvered beneath the sheets and crooked his elbow, resting his cheek on his upturned palm. 

“So,” Sherlock drew out. “You’re seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths.”

John was quiet when he responded. “Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime.” He blinked, his eyes trailing over Sherlock’s form and across the room; for a moment he was lost in thought. “Far too much.”

Sherlock licked his lips and mirrored John’s position. He steeled himself, swallowed and asked, “Well, I was wondering… wanna see some more?”

John’s gaze tore back across the room to meet Sherlock’s and they stared at one another for a long beat. Sherlock couldn’t help but feel that his entire future hinged on this one moment. He held his breath, his pulse hammering painfully in his throat while he waited for John’s decision.

“Well,” John said, a little breathless, with a half smile tipping his mouth. “I don’t want to sound too eager but… oh god, yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My profuse thanks to both Erin and Allison for their constant assistance and input; I truly could not have finished this piece without them. 
> 
> This has been both a blast and a burden to write. There were times when there was nothing else I could think about other than Sherlock in lycra; in those moments the words came easily. Then summer turned up and there was nothing I wanted to write about _less_ than skiing. My updates were sporadic and oddly-timed. 
> 
> But all of that said, for those that stuck with me through every update and to those of you who have waited until this was finished to begin, thank you so much for even bothering to take the time. Thank you, really, from the bottom of my heart for wanting to read a single word of anything I've ever written, ever.

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of this story, I’m taking some (serious?) liberties. To begin with, let’s forget that Great Britain hasn’t medaled in alpine skiing at all. For my purposes, Sherlock is well-established in the sport, mainly due to his family’s wealth and therefore ability to get him to training venues. I’ve also taken some liberties with my descriptions of the Olympic Village -- I’m aware it’s dorm style living but I’m assuming for the sake of this story that if one has money, an athlete can seek separate accommodations.
> 
> I, shockingly, am _not_ a skier. My winter sport of choice growing up was figure skating but there are quite a few skating AUs that I wished to steer clear of that. Besides, isn’t the idea of Sherlock, all firm and muscular in Lycra, taking off his helmet to let his curls flow in the wind as he leans on his skis, just a little bit appealing? That said, my knowledge of downhill racing is gleaned from my father and from the interweb. All factual mistakes of that nature are mine alone.
> 
> References: [1](http://www.bbc.com/sport/0/winter-olympics/26083254), [2](http://www.denverpost.com/olympics/ci_25098014/bode-miller-eighth-place-olympic-downhill-skiing-sochi), [3](http://sports.yahoo.com/blogs/olympics-fourth-place-medal/frightening-first-person-trip-down--killer--sochi-olympic-ski-course--video-081631652.html), [4](http://www.bbc.com/sport/0/winter-olympics/25782257)
> 
> My thanks to Erin, Allison and Meghan.
> 
> Lovely cover art done by johnlockforthewin, found [here](http://www.deviantart.com/art/UphillCover-437300808)!


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